


Hell is what You Make

by Ange_de_la_Mort



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Blow Jobs, Forced Masturbation, Forced Orgasm, Happy Endings that are none, Humiliation, I did mention the Stockholm Syndrome right?, Kidnapping, M/M, Non Consensual, Shaving, Stockholm Syndrome, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 17:19:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ange_de_la_Mort/pseuds/Ange_de_la_Mort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valvert Gift Exchange - fic. The prompt was: "Dark!Valjean, who has never been redeemed, kidnaps Javert and keeps him as a human (sex) toy".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell is what You Make

**Author's Note:**

> For the Valvert Gift Exchange. And coincidentally for [this](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13024.html?thread=6115552#t6115552) prompt at the Kink Meme.

It is a day like any other. Very much to his disappointment (Afterwards, he would have wished for a warning, for an omen, a brightly lit neon sign or maybe something more subtle, like Monsieur le Maire twirling his non-existent mustache while stroking a white cat and laughing maniacally. He doesn’t get any of these, of course.). It’s a day like any other; exhausting and tiring with more paper work than it should be legal. Javert sighs quietly and hides his face in his hands, massaging his temples. Normally, Montreuil is a dozy little town, one where nothing ever happens. And the things that _do_ happen, are normally very much the opposite of grave and severe. Sometimes, there is a parking offender, or here is someone calling because their cat doesn’t want to get down from a tree. Once, an elderly women called every day for a few weeks. She was sure - and nobody could tell her otherwise - that her neighbour was a satanic serial killer, who used his cellar for his rituals, for his sacrifices. Actually, though, the young man was simply a member of a Heavy Metal band, and the screams were part of their songs and not the result of dozens of people being tortured. Javert’s colleagues found the whole ordeal to be absolutely funny, while Javert himself called it a stupid waste of time.  
  
As already said, there is not much happening in Montreuil. Something Javert is actually grateful for. Something that - in his opinion- should not change at all. But it is a well-known secret that things always happen when one expects them least, and while Javert is making a new cup of coffee - the third one today - and complaining about the unnecessary paper work (which mysteriously seems to appear out of nowhere, even though _nothing happens at all_ ), the phone rings.  
  
His bad mood must be audible, for the man at the other end chuckles amusedly. “Am I interrupting something, Inspector?"  
  
"Monsieur le Maire!" He clears his throat and fixes his collar (unnecessarily, of course, he knows it himself, but wanting to look as presentable as possible in the mayor’s company has become a habit) and sits down, leaving the cup of coffee in the kitchen sink. “You are never interrupting, Monsieur." And should it ever happen that Monsieur Madeleine does call him in an unfavourable moment, then it won’t matter at all, because Javert’s relationship with his superior consists of Javert being always ready if needed. “What can I do for you?"  
  
Ah. Actually a lot of things, dear Inspector. There are many topics to talk about. You wouldn’t have the time to meet me later in the mairie?"  
  
Hm. Well. It’s not like he has any other plans. Maybe grab a beer, sit down in front of the telly and get fed up with bad detective stories. Nothing he couldn’t do at any other time. “I’ll be there, Monsieur le Maire."  
  
Monsieur Madeleine chuckles again. “I had expected nothing else. I’ll see you later, Inspector. I will prepare all the necessary documents for our little talk."  
  
When he hangs up, Javert frowns for a moment. Something in Madeleine’s voice was different, as if there was a special meaning hidden in his words that only the man himself could understand. But then, well, Madeleine is being Madeleine.   
  
Javert goes back to work for another few hours, and then leaves the building ("Good night, Etienne! See you tomorrow, Victoire!"). It’s only when he is already almost at the town hall that he remembers the no longer hot cup of coffee, and he gives a sigh, for it’s the fourth time this week that he has wasted their supplies, a thing his colleagues are already making jokes about, which, really, are not funny. At all. But oh, well, he thinks, tomorrow before work he’ll just make a short detour, grab some stuff and hope to not get annoyed by the coffee-loving mob any further.  
  
… pity that the times where this is his biggest worry are going to be over soon.  
  
-  
  
All lights in the town hall are already extinct when Javert arrives. All but one. In a window an the first floor, the is a single light shimmering in the darkness. The sight makes him smile a little, because it always surprises him and makes him glad that there is someone else in this city who’s taking his duties as strict as Javert is (in certain ways the mayor and he are truly alike, however big the differences between their minds may be). At the same time, he cannot help but wonder why Madeleine doesn’t simply take his work home. It’s not like the mayor is restrained to the walls of the mairie, now, right? But then, maybe Madeleine simply cannot find the necessary concentration in his own four walls. Understandably, in a way, for there are so many things to distract a man from work; the ringing of his phone for example, the doorbell with its annoyingly screeching sound, and the neighbours that mistakenly believe that their close proximity to the mayor will make him take care of their little problems, even though he has so much more important work to do (something that Javert’s own neighbours are prone to think), the postman who always arrives when one is taking a shower and somehow disappears as soon as one has made their way to the door, dripping wet and screaming bloody murder. The internet where certain people might get lost in distraction far too easily, even though they might know beforehand what to research and look up.  
  
Well, no, Javert can understand why the mayor prefers working in the mairie.  
  
He quietly goes along the red gravel walk that leads to the building, can hear the gravel crunch underneath his boots, a sound that is too loud in the silence of this evening.  
  
It’s strange, he thinks, how unbelievably quiet it is this very night. No people leaving the evening mass, nobody coming out of the two churches that surround the mairie. No tourists - armed with their cameras and smartphones - trying to take the perfect picture. Not a single car on the streets. Montreuil appears almost like a ghost town (if Javert knew more about horror movies, he would know that a seemingly forsaken city is never a good sign. Maybe then he’d go back to his small apartment in the Rue de Galices - or maybe he’d get a table and a late dinner at the Le Vauban. But sadly, Javert has no clue about horror movies, and also the three minutes of walk between the Préfecture and the town hall are not long enough to think about strange happenings and horror movies).  
  
Even at a time like this, the town hall appears friendly, which might be because of the flowers. Yes, flowers. They surround the building like the sea surrounds an island. Flowerpots in every window, in front of every door. _I wonder if some of the secretaries have a hay fever. That would suck, I guess._ Javert sighs at the thought of how much water must be wasted to make sure all these flowers look as friendly as they do tonight ( _Maybe there are some employees that only need to water the flowers all day long. Hm. But allegedly, the city is too poor to get a few new police cars. I will have a talk with Monsieur Madeleine about his priorities._ ), and slowly ascends the three small steps that lead to the front door.  
  
When he opens it, it creaks as if it hadn’t been oiled in a long time. The sounds sends a shiver down Javert’s spine; one he cannot even explain to himself. He only shakes his head and enters the darkness of the building.  
  
-  
  
The door closes behind him with a small clicking sound, and he has to swallow. Of course he is not _scared_ of the dark, he would be a really shitty policeman otherwise, and it’s not actually _that_ dark, because the street lamps outside the windows provide a little light, a weak but reassuring brightness. Still, the small hairs at the back of his neck rise. He doesn’t even know why. Most likely it’s only the silence to which he is unused. He only knows the mairie when it’s full of life: Normally there is someone at the reception (an officer Javert knows, one he has put there himself, because he knows that Officer Dupont’s work is always perfect, knows that he won’t lose his head in critical situations, knows that - if something should happen - Monsieur le Maire’s life would be in good hands), normally the sound of fingers gliding over keyboards can be heard from every room, just like about a dozen voices. Someone is always on the phone and someone else is walking from door to door with clicking heels. That all of this is missing, unsettles him slightly. But he should be used to it, should be used to being all alone in a large building. Considering how often he works overtime, how often he is the only one in the Préfecture, when there is no sound except the one of his own steps when he wanders from his office to to kitchen (and the coffee machine) and back. But that is different, isn’t it? That’s _his_ territory. It’s where he belongs. Unlike the mairie.  
  
He rolls his eyes at himself and pushes all bad thoughts away before they can fully form in his mind. Then he turns to the left and gets up the stairs to the first floor, all the while digging his nails into the metal railing. Wouldn’t it be far too embarrassing if he missed a step and lose his balance, fall in front of the mayor’s feet?  
  
Madeleine’s office is at the end of the corridor. He already knows. He has been there far to often, has had far too many meetings with the mayor, because the man prefers to talk from face to face instead of using a phone like normal people … but Madeleine is not exactly normal, is he? He is too happy. Always. It doesn’t matter what time it is, Madeleine will have a smile on his lips. He is always … no, not polite. Javert is polite, because politeness is something that you learn to use to get what you want. Javert has to be polite, even though he’d prefer to strangle the asshole in front of him. But he cannot do that, now, can he? Of course not. That’s why he hides his thoughts and opinions and is … polite. Madeleine is kind. It’s not like Javert believes kindness to be a weakness, but … oh, well, yes, he thinks it is one. Someone who needs to be kind is not able to order other people around. Those, who are kind, ask and beg. Javert doesn’t think highly of kindness. Madeleine is kind, is too kind, is strangely kind and friendly. But still, everybody follows his orders. It’s a mystery that Javert has not found the answer to, yet (sometimes, he wants to say ‘no’, wants to refuse to bow to Madeleine’s wishes, but he always finds that he can’t. Not only because he is polite. Not only because Madeleine is his superior. Also because there is something in Madeleine’s gaze that makes him refrain from protesting. It’s something … deep and strange, something Javert cannot explain, but that reminds him of a caged and lonely animal. As if there is something else underneath Madeleine’s kind composition. However, it’s not Javert’s place to judge or research him. It’s not like he - like everybody else - has his own darkness in his heart and his own matters to take care of).  
  
He is pulled out of his thoughts as he finds himself in front of Madeleine’s office door, in front of the thin, white door that still smells of fresh paint, even though the last renovation has been some time ago. Javert raises a hand and knocks, brushes the wood with his fingers.  
  
Nothing happens.   
  
Madeleine must have not heard him. He knocks again, louder this time, a thunderclap in the silence, a drumbeat to announce the begin of an often rehearsed choreography that they both would know in their sleep. Any second Javert would open the door, and see Madeleine sitting on his desk, lost in thought or some important papers. Madeleine would look up and pretend he didn’t notice Javert standing there, would pretend to be pleasantly surprised by the fact that Javert has found the time to say hello - as if Javert hasn’t acted upon orders, but upon his own free will. _Maybe that’s his secret,_ Javert thinks. _He makes everyone believe they act voluntarily. Nobody notices that he orders them around._  
  
There is still nothing happening. Javert is still not asked inside. He blinks in confusion. Has the man fallen asleep?  
  
Shaking his head, Javert opens the door. “Monsieur?"  
  
He wants to say more, but can’t because suddenly, a thin cloth is pressed over his mouth and nose from behind. Instinctively, Javert breathes in - and his brain is yelling at him for being stupid, so bloody stupid -, and then it’s too late. The light disappears in front of his eyes, and the darkness greets Javert like an old friend.  
  
-  
  
As he opens his eyes, there is darkness all around him - and not the warm and protecting darkness that curls around a man when he turns off the light after a long day of work and hides his head under the blanket. The kind of darkness that is none at all, because the street-lights outside the window still cast a shimmer of light, because the moon is shining or because some electric gadgets are still on stand-by, illuminating the bedroom in with their green or red dots of light, that make a man see his hands in front of his eyes should he awake late at night.  
  
No, this is the cold and crushing kind of darkness that curls around him like a hand on his throat, that clasps around his heart and turns it to ice. The kind of eternal darkness that is only to be found in death.  
  
He tries to catch his breath like a drowning man clutching at the life boat, needs some moments to steady his heartbeat. Only then is he able to form a clear thought. His mouth is dry and he licks over equally dry lips. When he tries to move, he notices that his hands are bound behind his back; the quiet clicking sound makes him think of handcuffs. Most likely his own. How ironic. Javert snorts, angry about himself. He’s been such an idiot to fall for a beginner’s trick like this. To breathe in when there is a cloth drenched with chloroform in front of his nose and mouth! He _knows_ it better. He should have known it better. But, well, there is a difference between theory and life praxis. One can learn a lot, can boast about the quality and quantity of his training, can show off about _knowing it better_ , that no, one would never fall for something like this. And then, one steps into a trap like some kind of complete idiot.  
  
But whatever. It won’t do drowning in guilty feelings or self-pity. Now it’s more important to get out of this situation. To understand what this is all about. Who has a reason to kidnap him? Who can have known that he would be at the town hall?  
  
No, he thinks. No, that is the wrong direction. If someone were to kidnap _him_ , they would wait for him in front of the Préfecture, would have knocked him out. The people he’d think capable of kidnapping would not bother with chloroform. So … think about it, Javert. What have you seen?  
  
 _Slowly, Javert opens the door. His gaze wanders from the neatly tidied up floor to the heavy desk, where next to the computer and the phone, there are quite a few stacks of paper. Madeleine is an orderly man, but even he cannot answer all the invitations and questions and requests the mairie receives in one day. The smile that tries to form on Javert’s lips freezes when he notices that something - someone - is absent._  
  
That’s it. The answer to all his questions. Madeleine wasn’t there. Why hasn’t he remembered that earlier? He blames the dizziness and the feeling of bile rising in his throat. They must have slowed down his brain a bit. But slowly, the fog lifts, slowly Javert is getting it all: Somebody has attacked and kidnapped the mayor, and Javert has disturbed the culprit. That is why he was taken, too.  
  
That knowledge is calming and scaring him at the same time. If he is not important enough to be kidnapped, then nobody will hold him at ransom. Then, the chance to be freed is there. Then he can use everything in his power to follow the culprit and save the mayor. On the other hand, if he isn’t important enough to be kidnapped - then what is holding them back from simply killing him? He is an obstacle, something that has to be removed. He knows too much. With a sigh, he moves a little to relieve the pain on his aching limbs.  
  
Handcuffs. Yes. He has to get rid of them. Luckily, he knows how to get rid of them, even though they are closed painfully tight around his wrists, even thought they cut into his flesh and will surely leave welts. But one halfway good thing he’s already noticed: Whoever kidnapped him, has no idea of handcuffs or he’d have twisted Javert’s arms further behind his back. But like this, he can -  
  
The only door in the room opens, which makes Javert raise his head in surprise. The silhouette of a person is leaning in the doorway - a man most likely, because the person is tall and has wide, broad shoulders. Behind him, there is a flicker of light, a promise of freedom that Javert has to reach. It’s so close, but still so far away.   
  
The man - Javert cannot see his face, for the light illuminates him from behind, casts a shining aura around him, almost like a halo that a devil might wear to disguise himself - slowly approaches.   
  
Javert feels the stranger’s eyes on him, licks his dry lips once more. Carefully, he tries to sit up, rolls from his side onto his back. A sudden flash of pain shoots through his body, his bound arms, but he ignores it, sits up. He quickly repeats his training in his mind. _Stay calm_ , he thinks. _You learned this. You know how to talk to people._ Well, yes, his education has been about twenty years ago, and since then he has never had to deal with kidnappers, but that doesn’t matter. Obviously, there is a first time for anything. Stay calm. Look him in the eye. Try to establish a connection. “Good morning, Monsieur," he says and forces a smile on his lips. “Well, I _say_ morning, but I cannot be for sure, now, can I?" His own laughter sounds as fake as it is. The man is standing in front of him. Javert still cannot see his face, which makes any tries of establishing eye contact harder than it sounds. “How is Monsieur Madeleine?" Because this is the most important thing, right? The mayor’s life that he has sworn to protect with his own. He’s obviously failed at that, but he swears he will correct his misdeeds and -  
  
A fist connects with his face.   
  
His head flies to the side. Hot and burning pain rushes through his body, his veins. He tastes blood. He has a split lip. Javert bows his head, breathes in audibly, trying to ignore the pain. _I guess that means ‘Shut the Hell up!’, right?_ And now the stranger would scream at him, would mock him, give him orders. Something like ‘Your Monsieur Madeleine is not cooperating. We want you to do something about that.’ Right? When his kidnapper gets violent, then he _wants_ something. When his kidnapper is violent to _him_ , then he has already gotten violent with Monsieur le Maire. Javert shudders at the thought of which torture the mayor must already have endured.  
  
In those few seconds where Javert sorts out his thoughts, nothing happens. Almost as if the man doesn’t know himself what he wants to do now. Or maybe as if he’s waiting for Javert to make a mistake.  But Javert keeps silent - until a heavy boots meets his stomach and Javert falls to the floor with a gasp.   
  
It isn’t the last kick that follows. Again and again, the man - kidnapper, culprit - kicks him, hits him, torments every bit of skin and bone he can reach. Javert can’t breathe, can’t protect himself, can only scream; scream until his throat hurts, can only curl up on his side, trying to protect his face and inner organs, while forgetting that this position leaves other body parts unprotected. A kick to his kidneys takes his breath away. Another one between his shoulder blades. Against his bound hands. His body is burning, hurts as much as the flames of Hell. He grits his teeth, bites down on his lower lip, opens the wound he already has there. The taste of blood becomes unbearable, and he has to gag. Tears well up in his eyes - and as the heavy boot connects with his skull, he passes out again, sinks into unconsciousness.   
  
This time, he is grateful for it.  
  
-  
  
He is not alone. He knows, even though his eyes are still closed. He feels the presence of somebody else, of someone being in the same room. Not only this. Through his closed lids, he can see bright light. _I deduce that someone finally found the light switch. Yes. Call me Hercule Poirot now._ Though his situation is still quite shitty, he has to laugh, opens his eyes - and gasps in surprise when he sees the well-known face of -  
  
"Monsieur le Maire!"  
  
Yes. It’s the mayor himself who is kneeling above him, who is looking at him intently (Javert thinks about the awful impression he must give right now; exhausted and bloody and completely _miserable_ , and if he weren’t so glad to see Madeleine unharmed, he would apologize for the way he looks), a strange expression on his face, a mixture of pity and fascination - as if Javert is a rare insect or an important project one has to work on.  
  
"I’m sorry," Madeleine says and falls silent, while in Javert’s head spin a thousand questions. _Are you all right? How could you free yourself? How many are they? You know, the bastards who hold us imprisoned? What happened anyway? You aren’t hurt, are you? Why are you apologizing, it’s not your fault, it’s my fault, I should have protected you better._  
  
He swallows all of these questions before they can tumble over his lips, and smiles a smile that makes his split lip hurt. “It’s not your fault."  
  
"I disagree." Madeleine tilts his head to one side, raises his brows. “I have lost control over my actions."  
  
Javert blinks. “Monsieur le Maire, I don’t understand … "  
  
"You will soon enough. And stop calling me that."  
  
Panic, naked panic rises in Javert, crawls through his veins, as the mayor stands up without helping him, without opening his handcuffs. “Monsieur Madeleine," he whispers. His voice is panicked, imploring, almost begging for this misunderstanding, this impossible situation to stop. Somebody tell him that this is all a bad dream, a test to prove his loyalty.  
  
"Monsieur Madeleine never was and never will be. You aren’t stupid, Javert. You know who I am."  
  
No. No, he does not. He can’t know. Monsieur Madeleine is … Madeleine. Monsieur le Maire. Nobody else. He makes a helpless, confused sound, as Madeleine turns his back on him, leaves him there on the cold, hard floor.  
  
He turns off the light.  
  
And Javert is all alone in the all-consuming darkness.  
  
-  
  
The man who has never been Monsieur le Maire takes a deep breath. This shouldn’t have happened. He shouldn’t have hurt him. He shouldn’t have done any of this.   
  
But Javert deserves it, doesn’t he? Deserves it after all he’s done, after all the crimes he committed unknowingly. He deserves to be punished. But not more. Madeleine is not a murderer. Has never been one. He will not kill a man - not even this one. … but what now? Now that he has slipped, that his mask has fallen out of place? Javert knows now, knows that he is not who he declares to be. Javert knows too much. He cannot let him go.  
  
He has no intention to let him go. Javert needs to learn his lesson and be punished for his sins.  
  
Madeleine is his judge and jury and the one to deal out the punishment.   
  
And what happens afterwards … well … only time can tell.  
  
-  
  
Who? Who is the man? What sort of human is one, who imprisons another, locks him up in a dark cellar and talks about not being the one he pretends to be? Javert knows Madeleine. At least … he thought he did. Thought he understood him, even though some of his characteristics are a little strange and impossible to understand, even though some of his movements don’t fit with a man of his upbringing: The way he flinches when somebody surprises him, talks to him while he is lost in thoughts. It would explain the look he has when he thinks to be unnoticed - a look that is turned into a distance that doesn’t exist, a memory nobody except for him knows. It would explain the way he behaves around Javert - always forcibly gently and kind, always so careful as if Madeleine, or whoever he might be, has something to hide from him. Is scared of him. Is this why he is here? Is there some kind of old story that they share, something that Javert has already long forgotten? Was Madeleine one of the many criminals he has brought to justice during the long years of his career?  
  
Maybe. Possibly. Likely. What else? If Madeleine has been imprisoned, then what for? Has he been a thief? Yes. That might be. A robber. He has committed a crime that was severe enough to be imprisoned for a long time, a time in which his dislike - Javert hesitates to call it hatred, because in front of his mind’s eye, he still sees the charming and gentle mayor - of him. But Javert would think Madeleine possible of having hurt someone. That he is not exactly the most pacifistic person around has already been proven.   
  
He shakes his head and breathes deeply. It doesn’t matter right now, does it? It isn’t important who Madeleine is. It’s only important to get out of here. Let’s start with the handcuffs.  
  
Javert sits up, which makes his body protest and scream in pain, but that is something he has to endure now. He kneels, only to slide his bound hands over his arse and to the backs of his knees. Then, sits back down and pulls first one, then the other leg out of the gap that has been crated. Look, he’s done a magic trick. A small one, but still a magic trick. Now he can use his hands. It doesn’t help against the handcuffs per se, but now he can at least protect himself from further attacks.  
  
And there is another thing he can do now. He can use his hands to feel his way around through the darkness. Which he does at once, moves forward meter for meter, his flat palms against the wall. The light-switch must be here somewhere … ah! His fingers find the small squarish bump of the switch. Javert sighs in relief (he likes to know where he is, doesn’t trust the darkness, doesn’t know who or what is lurking in the shadows. There is a reason why criminals act at night, when the good citizens are asleep, when you can’t see the hand in front of your face. This is when they hide in those deep and dark shadows that the light of the stars cannot illuminate and observe. Javert is not scared of the darkness. He just dislikes it. It’s a policeman-thing) and switches the light on, has to blink a few times until his eyes get used to the brightness. Now that his mind is not trapped with the presence of Monsieur Madeleine, he can freely take a look around.  
  
He is trapped in a small cellar. Ten steps long and five wide. At most. Directly next to the switch, there is the door that leads into freedom. Javert tries the handle, even though he doesn’t believe that Madeleine has somehow forgotten to lock it after him. And Madeleine hasn’t. Would have been too good to be true. He looks to the left and notices that the room is not completely empty at all: In the far-off corner of the room lies a mattress on the floor.   
  
Javert nods to himself. That explains something else: This has been planned for a long time. The chloroform, too, indicates this fact. For someone who buys a bottle of chloroform surely won’t use it to get a better sleep at night. One more question, though: Where exactly is he? He has never seen a staircase in the town hall that leads to some kind of cellar. But then, he has not exactly looked for it. Why should he have? There’s never been a reason. But the mairie is likely, otherwise Madeleine would not have wanted him to come here. His earlier thought had still been correct: Someone could have attacked him at the police department or in a dark alley. That he has been lured to the town hall has a reason. And which reason if not his make-shift prison being located there? This is a place Madeleine can always gain entry to, where nobody would even blink an eye when they see him there at a strange hour. Hm. But how did he manage to make sure that no one else will access this cellar? Isn’t there a chance that someone knocks on the door and notices that it’s locked? That someone hears Javert’s cries for help? That someone frees him?  
  
Maybe this is an information he can lure out of Madeleine somehow.  
  
His gaze falls on another door and he raises his brows in confusion, makes his way towards it. This door opens, and Javert does so, pushes it open and looks inside. What he sees, makes him smile in relief. _And I was already congratulating myself for not drinking too much coffee._  
  
That is something he needs no longer worry about. Now he has his own toilet (maybe that is what Madeleine did. Maybe he just slapped an “Out of Order" sign at the door. Why should someone go to a loo that doesn’t work?), which - he quickly finds out - does work quite well. He wouldn’t have thought Madeleine to be the type to fetch and clean a bucket everyday (but then he wouldn’t have thought Madeleine to be the type to kidnap people either, so, what does he know?). He makes a face as he finds himself thinking of ‘days’ already.  
  
Next to the bowl, there is a sink in the wall with a mirror above it. Javert has the urge to see his face and the bruises that Madeleine has left on it, so he turns on the light in the bathroom, too. And gives a sigh at the sight in front of him. His lower lip sports a few splits and gashes that start to bleed again when he touches them lightly. Some drops of blood have dried in his facial hair. His temple doesn’t look better at all: The kick that knocked him out must have left a laceration that has bled quite a lot. The blood has dried in his short hair. He shakes his head and washes all of the blood away and then bends down to drink as much clear and cold water until the disgusting aftertaste of the unconsciousness has disappeared.  
  
Then he leaves the room, sits down on the thin mattress, and thinks about how he might get out as fast as possible.  
  
-  
  
The concept of time is relative when there is no possibility to measure it. Javert cannot say for sure how long it takes until he is no longer alone in the darkness (for even though he has found the light, he is still not enlightened about this situation by far). Most likely it has been some hours. Most likely it’s early morning now. Because when Madeleine opens the door, carrying a tray, he is wearing new clothes. And new clothes are an indicator for a new morning (or some special event, but as far as he knows, there are no special events. He knows Madeleine’s schedule, after all, knows his plans - well, except for this one, obviously).  
  
"Good morning," Madeleine says, and Javert nods to himself, because he has been right. If Madeleine sees the movement of his head as a greeting, then he doesn’t let it show, only lowers the tray to the floor.  
  
"What is this supposed to be?" Javert asks, even though he can see it clearly. A small plate, two pieces of toast, a bottle of water and a jar of marmalade. Were it not this absurd, then Javert would laugh. Madeleine takes care of him as if they were an old married couple, bringing him breakfast to his bed. As if they are friends. Tsk.   
  
Not too long ago Javert might have been happy about the concept of friendship. Or about any kind of concept at all that was more than begrudging respect. But after the little stunt with the kidnapping, Javert somehow doesn’t see them becoming friends soon. Strange, how quickly some opinions can change, eh?  
  
"Breakfast."  
  
"That I can see."  
  
"Then why are you asking?"  
  
The left corner of Javert’s mouth twitches, the imitation of a smile. “Let me change my wording: Why do you first beat me and then feed me?"  
  
"Would you prefer me to beat you again?"  
  
Maybe. That would make sense. That would fit within the image of the brute that Javert now has in his mind when he thinks of Madeleine. It would be in line with the pain and the fact that he is locked up in a cellar and not able to get out again! He keeps silent and shrugs his shoulders, forces himself to be calm, to not scream at him.  
  
"You should eat."  
  
"Said the witch before she wanted to eat Hänsel."  
  
Madeleine smiles. He really does. He has the nerve to smile. For this alone, Javert will bring him behind bars. “With all due respect, dear Inspector. If I wanted to eat you, I wouldn’t have to feed you up beforehand." Good that Javert doesn’t find the words to reply. Whatever he might have said wouldn’t be nice. Which is why Madeleine goes on speaking: “Contrary to what you believe of me, I neither want to kill nor torture you. I simply want justice."  
  
"Which is in this case just a nicer word for revenge, right?"  
  
"Possibly."  
  
"Revenge for what?"  
  
"You will find out soon enough. As I said: You are not stupid. You will remember."  
  
"What then?"  
  
"Then we’ll see."  
  
This time, Javert laughs, dryly and cynically. “I can already tell you the end of this story: I get out of here and make sure you spend the rest of your life behind iron bars! You should be used to the sight."  
  
"Should I?" Madeleine voice is calm as ever, but there is a hardness in his eyes that betrays him, that lets Javert know he is on the right track.  
  
"What else should this -" Javert looks around. "- be about otherwise? You are a bastard whom I locked up some years ago, and now you’re out for revenge. Am I right? I know I’m right. What have you done? Did you steal some cars? Undress in front of little children? Shoot your wife?"  
  
"You really should eat."  
  
"Hell I’ll do!"  
  
One of Madeleine’s hands - his big, large hands. How could Javert not have noticed earlier just how large the man’s hands are? Those are hands that fit around a throat perfectly, that can squeeze and choke the life out of somebody, that can hold a gun - rubs his temples, pinches the bridge of his nose. He sighs. “Stop behaving like a stubborn teenager."  
  
"Or what? Or you’ll lock me up to punish me? You’re a little late for that, aren’t you?"  
  
"I will go now, Javert. Some of us have work to do."  
  
Ha! Javert does, too, and he would be at his workplace if he weren’t kidnapped and locked up here, thank you very much!  
  
"When I visit you again this evening, you really should have eaten."  
  
Javert only shrugs his shoulders and Madeleine shakes his head in disappointment, then leaves the room - not without turning the light off.  
  
Which is completely dumb and useless, because - hello! - Javert already knows how to turn it on again. So stands up and does.   
  
Or tries to, because the darkness does not budge, does not leave his side.  
  
He blinks once, twice, switches the light off and on again. And again. And some more times. Nothing happens.  
  
Javert presses his lips together. That shouldn’t happen. That isn’t good. Did something break when Madeleine turned off the light? Is something wrong with the light bulb?   
  
Or … is this something entirely else? A simple punishment that Madeleine has come up with to annoy Javert? He breathes in, feels his heart beat irregularly. Someone who wants revenge, someone who has kidnapped him is surely going to hurt him. Hurt him more that mere beatings could. His thoughts are spinning in circles. He has caught so many criminals, has seen all of them trying to hurt him. What if Madeleine has a knife with him next time? What if he attacks him when Javert doesn’t do as he says?  
  
Who … who is he? What has he done? If Javert only knew. He would need to know what kind of criminal Madeleine is. Then he would be able to predict his future. If he is just a simple thief, he will be less violent than a serial murderer. What if this is not about revenge at all? What if Madeleine has never seen Javert before in his life and what if the whole revenge talk is just empty words to lure him on the wrong track?  
  
His throat feels tight. His hands are shaking, making the chain between the cuffs dangle audibly. He needs to get out. He needs to … His fingers manage to clasp around the door handle - after more than one try, though - and he pulls and pushes and grits his teeth. His bruised body hurts, but he pays it no mind, hammers his fists against the door. The sound is too loud in his own ears, too loud in this silence, it hurts and pains him and _somebody_ must be able to hear him, must notice that he’s trapped in here. It’s the middle of the day, in God’s name! Someone must be in the building!  
  
But what if he’s been wrong? What if he isn’t in the mairie at all? Maybe he is somewhere else, in an old and empty building where nobody can find him, far away from civilization and people who could help him.  
  
Maybe the face of the man who calls himself Monsieur Madeleine will be the last thing he ever sees again in his life.  
  
Javert sinks to his knees, suddenly tired and powerless, because this thought is as crushing as the darkness itself.  
  
-  
  
When sometime later the light turns on without a warning, Javert wakes from his half-sleep (and chastises himself, because falling asleep is the dumbest thing he can do at a time like this, because if he’s asleep, he cannot protect himself, cannot shield himself from harm) and makes a face because of his bruised and hurting limbs.  
  
Madeleine comes in, closes the door behind himself. Javert watches him intently, his gaze wandering from Madeleine’s face to the hand that closes the door. He commits it all to memory, is sure that any information he can get will be helpful. He takes in every movement, every single twitch of his fingers, everything he can. “Good evening."  
  
"Not for me."  
  
"Obviously." Madeleine clucks his tongue as he sees the untouched food. “You didn’t follow my advice."  
  
"I don’t follow your orders."  
  
"Oh, but you have followed them all these years." Javert shrugs his shoulders, because, well, times change and loyalty does so, too. Madeleine smiles frustratingly. “You should do as I tell you."  
  
"You should let me go."  
  
There is still the smile on Madeleine’s lips, and he leans his back against the wall, ruffles his locks. “You are not in the position to give orders. We are no longer in Toulon."  
  
Toulon … Javert stays silent. That is unexpected. Not someone he has caught as a policeman, then. Someone who has been in prison with Javert himself - only on the other side of the iron bars. That confirms his worst thoughts about the man in front of him and about how dangerous he is. Javert left Toulon a long time ago, but during the time where he’s been a guard, the convicts were all dangerous individuals and cruel animals. Javert keeps silent, is still sitting on the thin mattress and looks up to the man. All these years ago their roles must have been switched.  
  
"You should eat. Even though the toast has already gone cold, I fear."  
  
"How long have you planned this?"  
  
"Javert, don’t be stubborn."  
  
"Did it warm you during the cold nights in your cell? Did you get off to the thought of torturing me?"  
  
"Be quiet!"  
  
But Javert doesn’t think of it, not now, that he has something to wound Madeleine with, a small point of weakness he can implore. Not now that he can see Madeleine’s hands twitch and ball into fists. “How often did you jerk off to that thought, you sick bastard?"  
  
Madeleine has crossed the room quicker than he could react, and raises a hand to slap Javert so hard it makes him tear up, that his head flies to the side, that the pain and humiliation make him want to cry - but it’s been worth it. It makes him smile grimly. He’s _got_ him. He knows his motives. He can work with that until - oh, and he is ashamed for not having thought of it before - his colleagues find him. Javert has simply disappeared. Someone will ask questions. Someone will search for him. And find him.  
  
The smile freezes on his lips as he sees Madeleine’s face, sees pure hatred etched into his expression. But it only takes a moment until the face of the beast that belongs into Toulon has been replaced by the gentle, caring mask of Monsieur le Maire. “Do you believe in God, Javert?" he asks as calmly as they are friends, colleagues talking during their lunch break.  
  
"Sometimes," Javert says and resists the urge to touch his bruised cheek.  
  
"Whenever it fits you, right?" He sports a disgusted smile. “I have believed in God. Before Toulon stole my life. But there is one thing I still believe in. I believe in Judgement Day, the day where everyone will get what they deserve. And this, Javert, this is what you deserve."  
  
"You’re completely crazy," Javert hisses, waits for another slap to come.  
  
But Madeleine only smiles bitterly. “And you are a stubborn old man. Not for much longer, though. I will teach you some manners."  
  
"By turning off the light?"  
  
"Every action is met with a reaction, every misdeed is followed by a punishment. You should know best."  
  
"Ah, you want to give me a spanking. Why didn’t you says so?"  
  
"Stubborn and childish. How sad. But you will learn that you won’t come far with these … qualities."  
  
And before Javert can say something, Madeleine picks up the tray and leaves.  
  
As the door closes, Javert murmurs: “Well, someone got sent to bed without dinner."  
  
Somehow he can’t laugh at his own joke.  
  
-  
  
 _His gaze falls into the small mirror in his narrow quarters, the only object that belongs to him and not the country, not the prison. He is young, very young. Has just been transferred recently. It is an advancement in his career, albeit a small one; but if his superiors think him capable of guarding prisoners that are more dangerous than mere thieves and robbers, then they must have a high opinion of him. One he wishes to confirm._  
  
 _He is young, still so awfully young. And vain. He wants to be able to gain as much success as he can, achieve so much more than his colleagues who are glad to have reached this point in their lives. He, though, wants more. Policeman, Inspector, Head of the Parisian Police. Those are the things he dreams of. This is why he is here: To get as much experience as possible, to learn how to handle the convicts. He is in Toulon to study them. When he knows how they think, then he will get to know how they operate. And when he knows them and their ways, he will be able to catch them. In his opinion, it’s a perfect plan. Sadly, there are a few things he does not know yet, he does not even dream to think of. Criminals are not all the same. This is something he has to learn. Not all of them are the evil queens and kings out of a fairy-tale or a children’s book, not all of them are like the criminals out of the detective stories he’s read, has grown up with, has devoured. Not all of them are cruel, moustache-twirling bastards, who are only evil for the sake of being evil. He still has to learn that some of them act out of necessity, out of self-defense or fear. And some of them, as he will know some day, do not act at all, but were simply at the wrong place at the wrong time._  
  
 _But he is young and vain and believes the law to be infallible. He doesn’t know it better. Can he be blamed? He is young, just twenty years old, and he has grown up with the stories of Jack the Ripper and Charles Manson and Pierre Chanal. He still believes in good and evil and he is sure to be one of the good guys himself._  
  
 _He is young and vain, thinks too highly of himself, and this is why he will fail, why he will awake one day bound and kidnapped in a dark cellar, where he is at a sick bastard’s mercy. It’s the reason why he treats the convicts the way he does - not cruel, no, but he is arrogant, thinks himself above them, because he is a good guy and they are not._  
  
 _He sees the man he will years later get to know as Monsieur le Maire, sees him in the prison rags that all convicts wear. They all look alike, look all the same, which leads to him not being able to tell their faces apart as they attack him, corner him. He hears them laugh, hears himself scream as he tries to escape their clutches._  
  
 _Big and strong hands grab his throat, cut off the air in his lungs. He screams, screams as loud as he can, but there is no sound leaving his mouth, no breath he can take as their faces start to blur in front of his eyes, as they become one. Black, red, blond hair becomes a muddy brown, features twist and and warp together. He is still screaming. The men’s laughter drowns out every sound he makes. His ears hurt, their voices are like stabbing needles in his eardrums._  
  
 _And when everything goes black, is the only thing he can see, the only thing that exists in his world, the friendly mask of the monster that calls itself Monsieur le Maire._  
  
_  
  
When Javert awakes, it is not - against all expectations - with a scream. But he still cannot breathe freely, because he still can feel the lingering images of those hands around his throat. When Javert awakes, he is drenched in cold sweat. He stares into the darkness of his prison and feels the panic crawl up his whole body like a disgusting insect that cannot be swayed away. It feels like his limbs are made of iron, like he is not able to move, to run away while the sheer and utter terror comes nearer, claws into the unguarded skin of his throat and rips it out, devours it completely. It feels like the hands from his dream are still there, are still choking him, still stealing his breath. His eyes are wide, but he is blind in the darkness that not only clouds the room, but also his mind and thoughts.  
  
And this, this is the moment in which he realizes the whole truth. _You are here forever._  
  
It’s this thought that snaps him out of his lethargy, that gives his body the strength to move. If only to stagger through the darkness and into the small bathroom - he almost trips over his own feet -, to turn on the light (and it works, it _works_ , this small fact is enough to relieve him so much that a small and grateful sob tears out of him) and collapse in front of the toilet, where he vomits his guts into the bowl, spitting bile until there’s nothing left and he can only retch dryly.  
  
Shaking, he closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe. It’s hard at first, because whenever he breathes, the smell of his own vomit fills his nose and makes him gag once more, He needs some moments until he is able to flush the toilet. The sound is loud, so loud in his ears, but it brings him back into reality and shoos away the cruel laughter which only exists in his mind.  
  
He stays in this position, on his knees, over the toilet bowl; his eyes are closed but he’s still seeing dancing little dots in front of them. _Calm yourself_ , he thinks, repeats it to himself over and over again until he can finally manage to listen to his own advice and regulate his breathing. _Calm yourself and think._  
  
During the last hours, his situation has not magically become better. Of course not. It would have been to good to be true if Madeleine had suffered from a spontaneous stroke of kindness and had woken Javert to let him out into the sunlight. No. He is still here. But - and it’s a big but - his situation had not become worse, though. Even though Madeleine really seems to hate him, he has done nothing truly cruel and severe. A slap in the face, a few bruises and a laceration are not exactly nice, no, but no life-threatening injuries, either. And at the same time, the danger of being killed by Madeleine is quite small, too. No, the man wants him alive, wants him to suffer, until he has faced some twisted kind of justice. Javert cannot learn when he is dead, now, can he?  
  
It’s a small relief at most.  
  
He breathes in and out and nods to himself, heaves himself up, flushes once more - just to be sure - and washes his mouth with the cold water out of the tap until the taste on his tongue doesn’t make him feel disgusted by himself any more ( _that_ will come soon enough, though, he fears. Because he is really, truly sure that Madeleine is not going to install a shower in here just for him. The thought of the mayor swinging a hammer and using a hot-melt gun makes him smile grimly). And then … then he comes to a decision.  
  
He will get out of here.  
  
And he knows exactly what he has to do.  
  
-  
  
The door opens. Finally. Javert doesn’t know anymore how long he’s been waiting for that (and how absurd it is that he’s happy about Madeleine’s arrival). Breathe. Stay calm. The light is turned on.    
  
Madeleine stands in the doorway, and Javert can imagine the confusion on his face, the way he  raises his brows before frowning, the way he opens his lips a little. “Javert?", he asks, and Javert has no reason whatsoever to answer him.   
  
For Javert is standing behind he door and is shaking in agitation, clamps his fingers around the small chain that keeps the handcuffs together, presses his fingers against it until they turn white. That doesn’t matter. At all. The chain mustn’t dangle, or he’d know where Javert is. He waits. Listens. Every fraction of a second feels like an eternity. But eventually Madeleine _has to_ step into the room, just _has to_. Javert has closed the bathroom door, so it hopefully looks like he’s in there, not wanting to come out (which wouldn’t actually help him at all; the door has no key. He wouldn’t even be able to protect himself or hide himself).   
   
"Javert?", Madeleine asks again, and this time - yes! - this time he steps into the room, his hands put on his hips.   
   
Actually, Javert had planned to hide and get out, to run, to slam the door behind him so the bastard can feel what it’s like to be locked up, but in front of his eyes, faces are blurring into one another, and the old question about _who?_ , about _who are you?_ that tortures him, that doesn’t let him go that needs an answer _now_ lets him act.   
   
With an angry scream, he attacks Madeleine. It’s not one of his better ideas, but in this moment his mind is not exactly working.   
   
He raises his arms above his and Madeleine’s head, pressing the chain of the handcuffs against his throat. The man makes a surprised sound, puts up a fight when Javert presses his teeth together and just goes on. Madeleine smashes his elbow into Javert’s rips and Javert screams, but doesn’t let go at all. Not even when Madeleine’s finger try to slide underneath the chain to relieve the pressure on his Adam’s apple.   
   
Sadly, there is one thing Javert has not thought about: If the anger and hate gives _him_ the strength to do this, makes him pumped up with adrenaline, makes him forget all reason and care, then it isn’t any different for Madeleine at all. And contrary to Javert, Madeleine possesses this almost superhuman strength - which he demonstrates when he manages to grab the chain, because his other hand grabs Javert’s right lower arm, and then he throws him right over his shoulder and onto the floor.   
   
The impact forces the breath out of Javert’s lungs. He lands on his back, must have hurt his head while falling, because he needs some time, some seconds until the world stops spinning in front of his eyes. Though he can still see Madeleine approach, can see him rubbing his neck, tracing the angry red marks the metal chain left with a finger. He looks at Madeleine’s face - and he knows that he had fucked up big time.   
   
When Madeleine talks, it’s a hoarse sound, that seems to pain him, for he makes a grimace. “Stubborn _and_ obstreperous. Well, if you want to behave like a pubescent teenager, you will be punished like one."   
   
Javert would laugh if he had the breath to do so, would giggle hysterically and laugh until his sides hurt, because what exactly is _not_ punishment yet? But it is good that he is unable to articulate his thoughts now, for he is sure they would anger Madeleine even more - and that is the last thing he wants to do.   
   
Madeleine - who already looks quite angered, oh that’s not good -, looks around the room and sighs dramatically. “The mess you made is reason to punish you alone. I should grab your neck and push your face into it, like you do it with small, disobedient dogs. Maybe this would make you learn."   
   
He is talking about the dinner tray that has found its way to the floor when Javert attacked him. Out of his perspective, Javert can see the shards. The small white plate has broken, white porcelain all over the laminate, the glass of water has shattered, too, and its remains are swimming in water. The jar of marmalade has not survived the fall, either, and the contents are forming a red, blood-like blotch on the floor. He cannot help but wonder if Madeleine is going to make him bleed like this, when - just as he thinks of the devil - Madeleine yanks on the chain, dragging Javert with him to the heating pipe in one corner of the room. Madeleine turns him around forcibly, pushes him onto his belly. Of course, Javert tries to put up a fight, tries to get out of Madeleine’s grip, kicking at him, but Madeleine is so much stronger than him (and once more, Javert wonders just who he is, because he would remember such a strong man, such a beast, wouldn’t he?), Madeleine doesn’t even care about his resistance. He produces a key out of a pocket of his waistcoat, one that Javert knows far too well, only to open one of the handcuffs and chain Javert to the pipe faster than one might react.   
   
He has a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling. But no matter how much he squirms, he metal chain doesn’t give in, and he cannot prevent Madeleine pushing up his jacket and shirt. He flinches. “What are you doing?", he asks and hates himself for how scared he is voice sounds.   
   
"I’m doing what I should have done some time ago." Madeleine’s fingers slide along Javert’s spine, make him shudder, make him try to swallow his disgust and fear. Those hands slide along his waistband and around his hips - no, no, no, this cannot happen - and come to rest on Javert’s belt buckle, which he slowly starts to open, starts to relieve Javert of his belt, but not his pants. Thank God.   
   
While Javert wonders what the meaning of this might be, the first blow hits him square on the back, steals his breath once more. He presses his lips together, suppresses every sound of pain to not give the bastard the satisfaction of hearing him scream. And Madeleine wants him to scream, this he knows. He knows more blows will come.   
   
And he is right. Again and again the hard leather of his own belt connects with his naked skin, hits his ribs and spine and kidney,s and he has to bite down on his lower lip, bite it so hard it starts to bleed again, tries with no avail to suppress every little sound. His hands clench onto the pipe and he screws his eyes shut, forces himself to breathe.   
   
He is sure there will be angry, red marks left when this is over.   
   
"I fear you have not yet learned your lesson," Madeleine says gently. “It won’t be enough until you beg me to stop."   
   
What he does next, makes Javert scream.   
   
The unyielding metal of his buckle hits his back over and over again, connects with the already abused and torn skin, rips it open. Hot blood seeps out of the wounds, trickles down his back (and somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks of dying of blood poisoning). Every blow hurts more than the one before, and it doesn’t take too long until Javert starts to stammer and babble, to beg without even registering his own words.   
   
But it seems to be enough. Madeleine stops. The belt lands on the floor next to him with a clicking sound (he can see the buckle’s reddish glint; the sight making him gag). Madeleine kneels next to him, buries a hand in his hair and yanks his head back, forcing him to look the man in the eye. The cold in his glare shocks Javert more than the fact that he’s been hurt once more. “Next time," Madeleine says, and his voice is calm, so calm, “I will make you count."   
   
Then he rises. Turns off the light. Leaves Javert bound and tired and in pain behind.   
   
\-   
   
He must have fallen asleep, for he flinches as the cellar door closes audibly. Automatically, he tenses, which only makes the welts on his back painfully remind him of his imprisonment. _Breathe_ , he tells himself. Just breathe. Stay calm. It won’t help to lose his mind.  
  
Madeleine’s steps come closer, and before Javert can think of reacting, the handcuffs are unlocked. But only to turn Javert on his back - ow! Ow, goddammit! -, to force him into a sitting position. When he looks up, he sees Madeleine’s gaze on him, the look in his eyes cold and unyielding. “I have been too nice to you far too long. No more handling you with kid gloves." It’s only now that Javert sees the glass in his hands; the greenish liquid inside looks absolutely not reassuring. “If you think I’m going to let you go just because you don’t eat your food, then you are wrong. You will eat. If you want or not."  
  
"How nice of you to worry about my health."  
  
Madeleine smiles. “I don’t want to kill you, Javert, even though you might not believe me."  
  
"Of course not." _You only want to torture and torment me and make me wish I were dead._ "… so, what is this?", he asks to shoo those thoughts away.  
  
"Breakfast."  
  
"Did you put vomit in a blender?"  
  
"Fruit and vegetables, actually. I must make sure you stay in good health. Wouldn’t it be boring if you just gave up? I’d be disappointed."  
  
 _And I obviously don’t want to disappoint you asshole at all, right?_  
  
Javert turns his face away, snorting, and presses his lips together, before Madeleine grasps his chin in his hand, digs his nails into the tender flesh. “Open up. Pretend I’m your dentist."  
  
He’s always hated dentists.  
  
When he doesn’t comply, Madeleine clucks his tongue disapprovingly and holds Javert’s nose, until he has no other choice than to open his mouth if he doesn’t want to suffocate. This is the moment Madeleine uses to force him to swallow the liquid.  
  
Javert gags at the taste, but a strong hands holds his mouth shut, forces him to swallow. It’s only then that Madeleine lets go of him, and Javert can cough and retch and spit on the floor in front of the man, looks at him with disgust and hate on his features.  
  
"We have a little time for each other today. How are you?"  
  
Well, he _would_ feel better if he were free, thank you very much. “Why should you care?"  
  
"Are you in pain?"  
  
He stays silent. That should be obvious. They both know it.  
  
"Ah. A stupid question. I apologize. Let me rephrase it: Does the pain I inflicted on you stimulate you memories?"  
  
He still keeps silent, only looks at him. Madeleine smiles. Smiles his darned ‘I am Monsieur le Maire and I will take care of all your problems, my lost little lamb’-smile. Javert wants to punch it out of his face. “Why Madeleine?", he asks instead."Is that your real name or an alias? And if it’s the latter: Why Madeleine?"  
  
Madeleine leans back, tilts his head to one side, and sits down more comfortably. “Madeleine, yes. Marie Madeleine, the woman who witnessed Christ’s resurrection." He laughs. “Well, I have been resurrected, too, but it would be arrogant to call myself Jesus Christ, wouldn’t it? That’s why Madeleine. The sinner who rises to new glory."  
  
"If I remember correctly, she was a whore."  
  
Madeleine smirks. “Oh, Javert, don’t try to make me angry. You know you won’t like it."  
  
Yes. Yes, he knows. This is why he keeps silent.  
  
They stay like this for quite some time, for some painfully long minutes. Then Madeleine gets up. “Well, whatever. Some of us have to go to work." He brushes a flicker of imaginary dust off his shoulders. “See you soon, Monsieur l’Inspecteur."  
  
Javert flinches. Not because he is no longer used to be addressed like this, but because … well … “You want to leave me like this?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"But … " He shuts his mouth, presses his lips together.  
  
"But what?"  
  
"I … " He cannot say it. Madeleine cannot _make_ him say it. Cannot force him to admit that his belly hurts, that his bladder is full, that the thought of not being able to relieve himself makes him panic.  
  
"Yes?" Madeleine grins broadly, and Javert _knows_ that the bastard knows exactly what’s wrong and where Javert’s problem lies. Still, he has no choice but - quietly, almost inaudibly and with heated cheeks - admit his little problem. He expects many things to happen. Expects mockery and ridicule. But he does not expect Madeleine to smile. “What’s holding you back?"  
  
"… excuse me?"  
  
"What is holding you back?", he repeats, and just as Javert takes a deep breath to explain that he can hardly take a piss while being bound to a heating pipe, Madeleine speaks again: “Don’t tell me you need help."  
  
"To be able to use the bathroom would be helpful, yes."  
  
And to Javert’s terror, Madeleine only smiles and lifts a boot, presses the tip of it against Javert’s abdomen, just where … where he should not do it at all.  
  
Javert whimpers, shaking his head hastily. “Stop this!", he orders, feels the pressure on his bladder grow stronger.  
  
But Madeleine doesn’t even think of it. He tortures this spot even further, smiles saintly. “You will feel better when you let go, believe me."  
  
He really, really doubts that. “Don’t … don’t do that!"  
  
"Say _please_."  
  
Javert is shaking. Tries to back away to make the pressure disappear, which only results in him pressing his hurt back against the pipe. It makes him groan in pain (and he hates himself for every sound of weakness). He swallows audibly, forces himself to stay calm. "… please."  
  
"Please what?"  
  
 _Don’t do this, please don’t force me to say it, please leave me alone._ “Please don’t make me wet myself." His cheeks are burning as the words leave his mouth, and he can’t look Madeleine in the eye.  
  
"What is my name, Javert?"  
  
"… Monsieur Madeleine."  
  
The boot nudges against him even more, and Javert has to press his upper thighs together. “My real name, Javert."  
  
"I don’t know!", he yells desperately, for all world to hear. “I don’t know who you are, I don’t know why you’re doing this to me, I just _don’t know_ , god, please stop this!"  
  
"Wrong answer." The pressure on his bladder is hard and unyielding, and after some more torturously long seconds it’s Javert’s willpower that gives up as he … lets go. Hot liquid runs down his legs, drenches his pants, collects in a small pool on the floor underneath him, wetting the seat of the thick material. The sound he makes - a mixture of a relieved whimper, a disgusted gasp and an ashamed and keening whine - makes him feel sick.  
  
Madeleine watches him closely, a smile on his lips. “Isn’t this better, Inspector? Pity about your uniform. But you followed my orders - not completely voluntarily, but that’s beside the point."  
  
"You’re a godforsaken bastard, you sick creep!"  
  
"And I’m the godforsaken, sick and creepy bastard who holds your life in his hands. Remember that. Oh, while we’re talking about things to remember … I had almost forgotten that I should relieve myself as well before going to work, now, shouldn’t I?"  
  
When Madeleine opens his pants and takes out his cock, Javert has just enough time to screw his eyes shut and press his lips together. Then, the steady stream of warm urine hits his face, running down his neck and dripping down his chin. It seeps through his clothing, into his collar, down his chest. The sound Madeleine makes is obscene, vulgar. Javert doesn’t look at him. Not even when he puts his cock away and closes his pants again.  
  
"Think of your sins, Inspector. Your soul is as dirty as your body."  
  
-  
  
The man, who has never been Monsieur Madeleine, smiles. _This_ , he thinks, _this is justice_. Javert’s disgusted and humiliated face warms a heart that has been turned to ice, and he licks his lips. It’s _different_ than all these years ago, when they were at Toulon, when their positions were the other way around. He has always wondered how Javert could stand it, could still live with his conscience, even though he treated his fellow men like animals, even though he humiliated them. Now he knows. He knows that it is a wonderful feeling.  
  
Admittedly, Javert has never been unnecessarily cruel. Strict, yes, but with himself as much as with his colleagues and the convicts. Madeleine still hates him for these long and torturous days, for the years that were stolen from his life. Javert is - in his eyes - everything that stands for his experiences in Toulon. For the time in which he died. No. In which everything humane in him died.  
  
What he said, was true - he has been revived like Jesus Christ himself. But for Javert, he is not the knight in shining armour who saves him from his sins, who forgives him for his misdeeds. He is the judge who announces the verdict and deals out the punishment.  
  
And Javert’s punishment will not be over for quite some time.  
  
-  
  
It’s his own thoughts that pain him the most. The doubts. Not the smell of urine that lingers in his nose. Not the feeling of the cold clothes sticking wetly to his body. No, it’s the question if maybe he has done something that makes him deserve this place and treatment. But he simply doesn’t know what it might be. He is sure that he has behaved as well as he could for most of his life. Still, he knows he could have done better. He’s been young and vain and arrogant. But he has never hurt anybody knowingly, has never tortured or beaten anyone at all. So what is it that _he_ is the one Madeleine hates this much? Is it just a coincidence? Just the simple coincidence of _him_ being the one to be transferred to Montreuil? Would this have happened to any of the former guards from Toulon? Or is there something more that binds their lives together, something Javert simply cannot remember?  
  
If only he knew who Madeleine is. Maybe then he’d understand what is happening to him.  
  
  


He sighs deeply and lets his head fall forward, feels tired and exhausted and overwhelmed at the same time. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here already. How many days have passed? Most likely not as much time as it feels like, because he feel like it’s been weeks already. He licks his dry lips and thinks. If he is right with the assumption that Madeleine visits him late at night and early in the morning, then this is the … fifth night? The sixth day? Really? That cannot be. It must have been more. Maybe Javert has fallen more often than that. Maybe Madeleine doesn’t even visit him twice a day. Maybe it’s already been a week or more. To be completely honest, he just doesn’t know how long it’s been and how much longer he can stand. Will he have to stay here for weeks? For months? Will Madeleine lock him up in this cellar forever? Alone and lonely without ever seen the daylight again, without ever meeting another person ever again?  
  
What about his colleagues? Why hasn’t anyone found him yet? Did they already stop looking for him? Do they think he’s dead? Was he a headline in the newspaper? Missed and searched and never to be seen again?  
  
He feels sick at that thought.  
  
Trying to escape was a stupid idea, he knows this now. He couldn’t do anything by threatening Madeleine. Couldn’t do anything by using violence. Maybe he should try from now on to make Madeleine happy, make him feel content. Maybe he should behave. Maybe he’ll get a hint leading to Madeleine’s true identity.  
  
And maybe … maybe Madeleine has told the truth when he’s said he’d let him go as soon as Javert remembers him. Maybe … maybe he really will be free again.  
  
Javert doesn’t believe in God at all, but today he prays, prays for hours.  
  
-  
  
Madeleine comes back. The light is turned on again. Javert looks up and blinks in confusion. In one hand, Madeleine is holding a bucket. What does he want with it, Javert wonders and wants to ask, but thinks he doesn’t really want to know it at all. Doesn’t want to know what Madeleine does and thinks and wants. The thoughts that Madeleine says out loud are bad enough.  
  
"Hello."  
  
Javert only nods, regarding him suspiciously.  
  
"How are you?"  
  
 _Why the fuck would you care?_ “Wet and cold and dirty," he says honestly, because he’s learned that everything will be worse when he dares to lie to him or not answer him at all.  
  
"Not for much longer," Madeleine promises with a smile that makes Javert afraid of what he’s going to do. He kneels down, and only now can Javert see the knife at his belt.  
  
The cold he feels has nothing to do with the wet and chilly fabric on his skin. “Is this the moment where you’re going to cut my throat? Is that what the bucket’s for? To clean up afterwards?"  
  
Madeleine chuckles, regarding him with pity in his eyes. “I thought you were aware that I have no intention of killing you." Well, he is not really _aware_ of anything. It wasn’t like Madeleine gave a crap about Javert’s opinion or asked him directly what he wanted and what he didn’t want. “Though," he adds while bending down to Javert’s face, to his ear. He is close, so close that his lips slide over Javert’s skin. “Though I will not hesitate to cut you if you misbehave."  
  
"I thought you need me alive."  
  
"I don’t need you with all limbs attached. And now, hold still." Madeleine draws the knife. The blade reflects the bright light of the room, which only adds in making Javert feel even more threatened. The warm metal brushes Javert’s throat - and he breathes in shakily and audibly, doesn’t dare to move at all -, and slides down without hurting him. Down his neck, down his chest towards the buttons of his dress shirt. Madeleine uses the knife to cut through the thin string that connects the button with the fabric.  
  
 _Click_ , he hears as the button lands on the floor.  
  
"Are you scared of me, Javert?"  
  
 _Click._  
  
"Yes." There is no sense in lying. It’s obvious. It can be seen in the way he tenses up without looking away from the knife at all, even though it doesn’t do him any good. He can watch, but he cannot prevent Madeleine from doing anything.  
  
 _Click._  
  
"Good. You scared me, too, once upon a time."  
  
"I’m sorry."  
  
 _Click._  
  
"You don’t have to be. I’m no longer afraid of you."  
  
"Good to hear." Should that make him happy? Is it not more dangerous for him when Madeleine is no longer afraid? When he has not a single bit of respect left for him?  
  
A last button falls down, and Madeleine can open Javert’s shirt, can slide it down his shoulders. Javert shivers as goosebumps appear on his skin, because even though he is still chained to that damn pipe, it is not exactly warm in the room. And it will be even colder soon - for Madeleine uses the knife to (however much Javert protests) cut through the urine-drenched fabric, uses it to cut the fabric from his body, which he somehow manages to do without hurting Javert at all.  
  
"Don’t you want to know why I’m doing this?"  
  
 _Of course I do, but I’m scared to death to ask you anything as long as you have a fucking knife!_ “I’m sure you’re going to tell me."  
  
The smile is back on Madeleine’s lips. “You are dirty. I have to wash you."  
  
Javert flinches, feels his cheeks burn. “I-I … I can do that myself."  
  
"I know. But where would be the fun in that?"  
  
Fun. Ha-ha. Yeah, no, Javert doesn’t exactly agree with him. This is not going to be fun. But what shall he do? He can’t do anything, can only watch helplessly as Madeleine relieves him of his pants and underwear, leaves him naked and unprotected. “Y-you … you don’t have to … "  
  
"Please remember you are in no position to ask for something. And now let me do what I intend to and be quiet, or I will have to gag you."  
  
That is not the answer he hoped to get. So Javert keeps his mouth shut, presses his lips together and looks away, trying to ignore Madeleine’s content smile. Tries to pretend he cannot hear Madeleine produce a wet piece of cloth from the bucket. He wrings it out. As much as he tries, Javert doesn’t manage to suppress a shudder as warm water brushes over his cheeks, cleaning them. He can’t ignore the careful, gentle way in which Madeleine washes his face.  
  
He has never felt this helpless. Which is, of course, exactly what Madeleine wants. He knows that, and he knows that he shouldn’t do him this favour, but he still reacts the way Madeleine wants him to: He shivers and gasps, breathes heavily, a chilly cold washing over him as the first droplets of water trickle down his neck and collarbones. His body is burning, not in pain and not only in embarrassment.  
  
Madeleine cleans him in silence, and he is careful, so careful, so gentle, so different from all their other meetings. It’s the first time since … since he’s been here that Javert experiences something that is not pain and mockery, and it is hard not to lean into these touches. His body reacts to this kind treatment without consulting his mind beforehand, without asking for permission; his nipples are stiff and hard, and he gasps every time a drop of water circles them. When Madeleine teases them with the cloth, a shaky sound escapes Javert’s lips. He quickly closes his eyes, so he doesn’t have to see Madeleine grin at him. _It’s completely normal_ , he thinks, _to react this way_. He forces himself to stay calm. These are simply bodily reactions, born out of his isolation and loneliness. Nothing more. It is completely normal. It’s not his fault. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want his cock to grow hard, to hang heavily between his legs. He really, really doesn’t want all blood in his body to rush in his nether regions (and his cheeks). It simply happens. And even though he knows that it’s _not his fault at all_ , he feels ashamed, bites down on his lower lip.  
  
Madeleine’s breath ghosts over his skin, hot and torturously close. “Spread your legs for me."  
  
He shakes his head hastily, again and again, and still does as Madeleine orders him to. The water comes in contact with his thighs, his hips, and he can hear Madeleine praising him for his obedience, even though his heart is pounding so loudly in his ears that he shouldn’t be able to hear anything at all.  
  
"You’re doing good," Madeleine says. “I had expected nothing else, my dear Inspector." And the wet cloth glides along his balls and his cock.  
  
Javert’s eyes widen and he arches his back into the touch without wanting to, leans into Madeleine’s hand, even though he is still shaking his head. “No!" tumbles over his lips, and “Please don’t!" and “Oh God", together with hoarse and greedy sounds, loud moans that drown out his words, make him seem more willing than he is.  
  
His protests go unheard, cannot make the cloth and fingers go away, cannot make them stop caressing his shaft, sliding it up and down, teasing the underside. He can’t prevent Madeleine groaning into his ear what a goddamn _"good boy"_ he is, how obedient and well-mannered, and Javert shakes in agitation, in arousal, in shame and hatred alike.  
  
And, finally, it’s over. Finally, he can’t fight it anymore, can’t help but come into Madeleine’s hand with a small moan. It’s white-hot pleasure that rushes through his veins, that quickens his heart beat and that clouds his mind.  
  
Madeleine just smiles and resumes cleaning him. With large hands he spreads Javert’s legs to wash away the last remnants of liquid, to cleanse his body completely. Through the thin cloth, Madeleine presses against his hole. Only for a second. So fleetingly that he almost thinks he has imagined it.  
  
He refuses to think about it, instead looks into Madeleine’s face and once more asks the question he has not received an answer yet. “What have you done? Why did they take you to Toulon?"  
  
This time, it’s Madeleine who keeps silent. He lets the cloth fall back into the bucket and collects Javert’s ruined clothing. Then he looks at Javert, tilting his head to one side. He thinks. Kneels down again. “I was the only one innocent man in that pit of sinners," he says and opens Javert’s handcuffs, takes them with him. “Sleep, Inspector. In our dreams, we relive our strongest memories."  
  
-  
  
 _His fingers slide over the thin sheet of paper, trace the contours of the letters printed onto it. He reads the letter again and again, and with every other line he has to frown more. “Innocent," it says._  
  
 _He can’t believe it. He can’t understand it. How could this have happened? How could the law let something like this happen at all? To bring an innocent man behind bars. For so many years. Should the law not be just, should it not punish the criminals and protect the innocent people? But if a criminal is not guilty, and those who are believed to be innocent people are actually those with the dark and gruesome secrets, then who does the law even protect? Who does it punish? Is it really just and justice?_  
  
 _He doesn’t know anymore. His head hurts and his thoughts are spinning in circles. He feels sick. He is no longer young, no longer arrogant and vain. He knows - he has learned - that there is not only black and white. But a sinner who has not sinned at all … is a concept that is hard to understand. It’s more than he can take, than he can live with, but it still makes him wonder what even is wrong and what is right._  
  
 _Javert thinks himself to be a good man. One who follows the law and upholds it, one who wants and tries to protect innocent people._  
  
 _He does not belong here, this he understands now. He doesn’t belong amongst those who follow orders without questioning. He doesn’t belong in Toulon any longer, is no longer a part of the guards who take care of the convicts in silence, with silent minds and thoughts. How can they watch over people without knowing whether they even committed the crimes they are punished for? How can they judge them without knowing if the convicts truly are criminals - or if they have just been at the wrong place at the wrong time?_  
  
 _No. This isn’t his life. It shouldn’t be his life._  
  
 _Before doing anything else, he reaches for a sheet of paper and phrases the words that explain what he feels without revealing his feelings at all. He cannot do this any more, cannot go on any longer. “I regret having to inform you," he writes, and “I ask for you to understand my decision", when he actually wants to write that he can no longer support this system with a clear conscience, that he doesn’t want to do this any more. He wants to write that all of this is injustice and that he hates himself for having taken part in it._  
  
 _With shaking fingers, he folds his resignation and puts it into an envelope._  
  
 _He doesn’t belong here, he thinks, as he leaves his office, as he - slowly and with heavy steps - makes his way through the long hallways, passing the cells. He doesn’t even notice the convicts at all, however much they yell at him and insult him and beg him to let them go. None of their words reach his ears._  
  
 _He belongs somewhere else. He belongs amongst those who pursue the law themselves, who support it, who act it out. Amongst those who investigate and try to sort out right from wrong, justice from injustice._  
  
 _He doesn’t belong to the guards anymore. He belongs to the policemen. To those who capture the real criminals, who make them face the punishment they deserve._  
  
 _He belongs to those who make sure that something like this never happens again._  
  
 _In front of one cell, he comes to a halt, looks inside._  
  
 _It is sparingly equipped, just like the others. A bunk. A toilet. A wooden desk._  
  
 _And there, at this desk, is a man sitting. A man with sad brown eyes and dark brown hair._  
  
 _Javert clears his throat, and the man looks up to him. His eyes are dark, resigned to his fate. There is a kind of darkness in them, that makes Javert - now that he knows the truth, now that he knows better - flinch and force himself not to take a step back. He clears his throat once more, searches for the right things to say. He wants to apologize, to ask for forgiveness, for himself and for the system that should not make this kind of mistakes._  
  
 _Nineteen years has the law stolen from this man. He has already been here when Javert was transferred to Toulon. He has been a constant in Javert’s life, someone who has always been in sight. The other convicts have come and gone with the wind itself, but this one …_  
  
 _"24601," Javert says and forces himself to breathe. “No. Jean Valjean. You are free to go."_  
  
-  
  
When the door opens the next time, Javert has already been awake for quite some time. Carefully, he rubs the skin where the handcuffs have been. His wrists have stopped hurting, but there is still some kind of itch he cannot quite get rid of. Bright red marks have formed on his skin, not-so-nice remains from the last few … weeks?  
  
Today, the man, who has never been Monsieur Madeleine, carries a tray. In his other hand he holds a blanket. Oh, and not only that, Javert notices at a second glance. A blanket and a towel. As well as a plastic bag. “It would be nice if you could clean your mess up." With this, he points at what is left from the last time Javert was granted solid food. The left-overs don’t look so good anymore (which is why Javert - though hungry - has not touched them. He has not gone so far to eat musty food, yet. And he knows that Madeleine is not going to let him starve. Whatever might happen from now on, he won’t be forced to eat bread that’s peppered with glass shards).  
  
Javert gets up from his mattress, naked and unashamed (at least it _looks_ like he’s unashamed. Of course he is still uncomfortable without his clothes, but, to be honest, he has suffered worse than that by now), takes the towel from Madeleine’s hands and starts to clean the wet and sticky mess up, collects the shards with care lest he cut himself, then throws everything into the bag. For a moment, he argues with himself if he ought to attack Madeleine again, should threaten him with one of the larger shards, but he casts the thought away immediately. They have to talk now. They have a certain topic to discuss. Now, there finally is a sliver of hope on the horizon.  
  
"I brought you a blanket."  
  
"No new clothes?"  
  
"You won’t need any."  
  
"For how long? Nineteen years?"  
  
The man freezes mid-movement. Javert can see that he’s surprised, shocked. He hasn’t believed at all that Javert could remember. Has he hoped to play this sick kind of game forever? Has he thought, when he waited long enough, then Javert would forget the motif behind this crime, would resign to his fate and gladly lick his hand like a good dog?  
  
No. Not Javert. He would never.  
  
He still has his aims and goals, his duties to carry out. “Let me go, Valjean."  
  
Silence. Only the sound of his own breathing reaches his ears. Then the man smiles sadly. “Nobody has called me that in a long time."  
  
"Then someone needs to start doing so, right, Valjean?"  
  
"I am proud of you." He stands before Javert, looks down at him. “You have not disappointed me."  
  
"Let me go."  
  
"Why should I?"  
  
"Because you said you would let me go when I remembered."  
  
"I said we would see what should happen next."  
  
Bile rises in his throat, and Javert quickly swallows it down. “You … you are a good man, Valjean. Don’t do this,"  
  
He smiles. Smiles broadly and approaches Javert, and now Javert can see something inhumane, something beastly in his gaze, his posture. “I cannot let you go. Not now that I possess a life again. I won’t let you steal it away from me."  
  
"I wouldn’t tell anybody … "  
  
"Oh, please, who should believe _that_?"  
  
"Valjean, please."  
  
"Please what? ‘Please let me go’? ‘Please don’t let me rot in here’? That’s what I have asked you often enough."  
  
Javert tenses up. “That isn’t fair."  
  
"Fair?" Valjean laughs. Laughs loudly and bitterly, and when he grins, he bares his teeth like a wild animal. “Life is never fair."  
  
"I know you were treated unfairly. But that is not my fault. _I am innocent."_  
  
"I was, too!" He yells, screams, and his gaze, there is only hatred to be seen. “I was innocent and nobody cared! Nobody cared at all! Nobody believed me!"  
  
"It was a mistake."  
  
Valjean's fist connects with his face when he tries to get up. He fists his fingers in his hair, yanks his head back and looks at him with disgust in his eyes. “A mistake," he repeats coldly. “You and your system have stolen half my life. And you call it a _mistake_."  
  
"It’s not my fault!"  
  
"But you haven’t done anything to help me! You were _so_ blind in your false believes. This is _your_ sin, Javert." Valjean pushes him back, and he falls on the floor, lands awkwardly on his elbow and shoulder, keeps lying on his side. “God doesn’t like sinners."  
  
"Do you think, God likes _this_? You were innocent, once, now you’re nothing more than a criminal!"  
  
"I am what you made me."  
  
Javert spits out in front of him, and Valjean kicks him in the face. Even though he’s seeing stars in front of his eyes and the world is spinning upside-down, he can still see Valjean slamming the door shut behind him.  
  
And this time, Javert cries. Cries bitter tears until he falls asleep on the spot.  
  
-  
  
Javert has made a mistake. A very grave one. And now, he is paying the price for it. He was not careful enough, did not validate Valjean’s hurt feelings. He’s been an idiot.  
  
Valjean doesn’t talk to him anymore. It may sound stupid, like the punishment that angry parents lash out. But it makes him nervous. In his current situation, Valjean is the only person he has contact with, the only voice he hears. And now, with Valjean not talking to him, the loneliness is even more painfully surrounding him as the darkness ever could be.  
  
Yes, Valjean still visits him every day - or every other day, how would he know? - still brings him food, but he ignores Javert completely, doesn’t even spare him a glance. At first, Javert has laughed about it. “Am I not good enough for you to talk to me anymore?", he has asked. “Did the cat get your tongue? Did your hypocrisy make you mute?"  
  
He has laughed, has mocked Valjean, has only too late understood that is only making it worse. Valjean doesn’t talk to him anymore, and Javert suffers under the silence.  
  
Whenever the door creaks, it is loud, so loud in his ears, and every time, he hopes to be granted a word, a greeting, an insult. Anything that breaks this silence that hurts in his ears, that pins him down like it has a physical weight.  
  
Sometimes, in the loneliness of his imprisonment, Javert catches himself speaking out loud, raising a voice that sounds hoarse and unknown to himself, because of how long he hasn’t used it.  
  
Again and again, he watches Valjean with wild and hungry glances, waiting for a single word out of his mouth, waiting for any uttered sound. He is waiting for something that shows him that he is still human enough to be worthy of being talked to.  
  
Again and again, he stands in the bathroom in front of the sink, digging his fingers into the porcelain and looking at himself in the mirror. He has changed, has lost weight. His cheeks are hollow. There are dark shadows underneath his eyes. The carefully trimmed facial hair has grown, and he is sporting a full beard now.  
  
He doesn’t even recognize himself any longer. Whenever he opens his mouth and speaks, whenever he talks to his mirror image like with a real person, he feels a strange stab of relief in his chest (even though his brain screams at him, because yes, of course he _knows_ that it’s his mirror image. He is not crazy. No yet. But he fears to lose his mind soon).  
  
"I am sorry," he says one day, when Valjean has already turned around, has already put a hand on the door handle. “I’m so sorry, please, I didn’t want this. I never wanted this." His voice is shaking, and he doesn’t even notice that tears well up in his eyes. “Please stop this. Please don’t do this to me. I’ll do whatever you want, just … please talk to me again."  
  
Valjean stays where he stands. Turns around slowly to face Javert. “Everything?", he asks with a smile, and Javert whimpers at the sound of his voice, nods hastily. “Really and truly everything?" He nods again. Valjean looks him up and down. “Touch yourself."  
  
Javert looks at him questioningly, doesn’t understand what and why and for what.  
  
"Spread your legs for me. Touch yourself. Or do you want me to go and leave you alone?"   
  
"No! … no." Javert forces himself to breathe, forces himself to stay calm, and closes his eyes. He feels dizzy thanks to his uncertainty (and before all of this, he has never been uncertain, has always known what to do, but a lot of things have changed). He licks his dry lips, puts a hand between his legs.  
  
It’s not enough to make him hard, he is too nervous for that, too worried that he might do something wrong. He strokes his flaccid flesh, makes a frustrated sound when nothing happens, because he knows he will disappoint Valjean, and then Valjean will go and leave him alone again, and Javert will -  
  
He can feel the mattress give in a little as Valjean kneels beside him. He can feel Valjean’s hot breath ghosting over his skin. He can hear Valjean’s whispered words, and whimpers gratefully. “Show me what you can do," Valjean breathes against his skin, and Javert feels the heat rising in his body. His free hand roams over his chest, pinching a nipple. Slowly, so very slowly, he gets hard, and he knows it’s only because of Valjean’s voice, because of the quiet sounds he makes and words he utters ("You’re doing good" and “Yes, pinch them. Make them hard and red for me" and “Aren’t you a good boy").  
  
The first droplets of sweat form on his forehead, run down his spine, and even though he frantically tries to think of something else, of someone else, it’s Valjean who is possessing his mind. Valjean, whom he sees in front of his closed eyes as he bucks his hips and grips his cock harder, smearing the first drops of pre-come along his shaft. He shouldn’t be surprised that it is Valjean’s name that lies on the tip of his tongue when he succumbs to the pleasure and wets his hand with his seed.  
  
A big, strong hand strokes his hair, and he leans into it, curls up against the fingers, against the warmth. When he opens his eyes, Valjean smiles.  
  
"You’re a very good boy," Valjean says and it’s the most wonderful compliment Javert has ever received.  
  
-  
  
Later this day or night, he gets his first reward. A cup of coffee and a heavy book.  
  
And when Valjean grabs his chin carefully and kisses him on the lips, Javert lets it happen, has only eyes for the book.  
  
He reads until he falls asleep, drinks the coffee like it’s ambrosia, and for the first time since he’s been here, he feels happy in his life.  
  
-  
  
The man, who has not been Jean Valjean for a very long time, leans his back against the cellar door. His breath is coming in fast and heavy gasps, his chest rising and falling quickly. He licks his lips, loses no time to reach between his legs and stroke his hard and leaking cock through the thin layer of fabric. He makes no sound while doing so.  
  
Never … never in his life did he think Javert would do as ordered. That he’d be this willing. He asked him to jerk off, only to see if he would, without actually believing that, yes, he _would_. He didn’t expect this at all. Wouldn’t it have been more logical for Javert to yell at him, to tell him that he never would sink this low?   
  
He is not too sure himself what exactly it is that arouses him. The way Javert looked, maybe, with his unfocused gaze out of dark green eyes. His naked body, which he teases with his fingers, his hard and stiff nipples. The hand around his cock that caresses the whole length while his thumb strokes the head, teasing the small slit (and oh, Valjean has thought about tying him up, about touching him everywhere and sliding a small metal rod into his slit, into his urethra. He has thought of filling him out completely, of spreading him, of sticking as much into him as possible). Maybe it’s the moment of Javert’s climax. The moment where he has opened his lips and where a small string of saliva has trickled down his chin.  
  
Valjean remembers it so very well, imagines it right now, presses his palm against his cock.  
  
Maybe it’s the knowledge that it’s _Javert_ degrading himself like this. Javert and nobody else. Javert is what reminds him of Toulon, a constant in his life. He’s always been there, always been on the other side of the iron bars, on the side of the freedom that Valjean has craved and wanted and deserved. To see him like this, now, captured and humiliated and so, _so_ very desperate that it makes Valjean’s blood heat. Javert has fallen. And angel of justice that has become a subhuman.  
  
He likes this. Very much.  
  
Or maybe, maybe it’s simply the power he has never known before. Jean Valjean has never been a powerful man, not even before his colleague - Valjean had been a secretary, one of those unimportant people with interchangeable faces - has framed him for murder (Valjean was said to have killed his superior, just because he was strong enough to be able to have done it. He begged and cried and screamed and grieved for nineteen years of his life).  
  
Of course, to begin a new life as Monsieur Madeleine has been a good idea (for who would have hired Jean Valjean, a murderer in the eyes of his fellow citizens, and nobody would have believed him to be innocent), and of course, he does possess a certain power over the city and its inhabitants. He is responsible for the lives of so many men and women and children. But he’s never had this power over one single man, one man he could form as he wishes.  
  
And this is what arouses him the most - the thought of being able to treat Javert however he pleases, to make him his own, his possession.  
  
This is what makes him come in his pants without making any sound.  
  
Javert is _his,_ he thinks with a smile. Only his.  
  
-  
  
"Come," Valjean says, and Javert obeys, because that is what he's learned to do, because obeying means being a good little prisoner and being good means getting a reward and rewards are wonderful, aren't they? When he obeys, Valjean will be happy with him. And ... somehow he likes that thought, the thought of Valjean's lips parting into a smile, the thought of Valjean's voice whispering sweet nothings in his ear. The thought of ... of Valjean touching him with his large and strong hands, or talking to him while he touches himself and /imagines/ these hands on his body. He shouldn't think like this. But Valjean is all the has, now, Valjean is here for him, Valjean is the only one who has not abandoned him yet. And he is grateful for every minute he does not have to be alone. So he obeys and follows Valjean into the small bathroom, where he is ordered to sit down on the floor (his blanket spread out underneath him, thank God, for the floor is awfully cold).  
  
He looks up questioningly, and Valjean smiles down on him. “You need a shave.”  
  
“Shouldn't I be the one standing in front of the mirror, then?”  
  
“I wouldn't trust you with a blade.”  
  
… oh. Javert lowers his eyes, unsure what exactly this is supposed to say. Does Valjean fear he'd be attacked as soon as Javert's hands clasped the handle of the razor? Or does he believe Javert to slit his own throat to get away from him? The truth is … Javert does not even know himself how he'd react.   
  
Weeks ago, he would have used every chance he could get to find a way out, even if it meant using brutal force. Now, however, he has changed. They both have. Valjean is gentle and careful and talks to him again, he no longer wears the cruel mask of Monsieur Madeleine, the sinner out for revenge.  
  
And Javert himself, well … while he has not forgotten the world outside his cellar, he feels like he does not belong there any longer. He belongs to this room and his blanket and the treats Valjean offers him. He belongs to Valjean, belongs to the man who watches over him, who feeds him and lays him to rest at night, who visits him even though he has no obligation to. Nobody else does look after him, after all. They've all forgotten him. There is nobody in his life except for Jean Valjean.  
  
And so he obeys and keeps still while Valjean applies shaving cream to his face, covering his cheeks and neck with white foam. In his hand, he holds a straight razor. Once, an eternity ago, Javert has shied away from the sight of Valjean holding a blade, has shuddered and shivered and feared. Now, he only feels a certain thrill running down his spine as Valjean gently presses the blade to his left cheek, swiping it clean of hair and stubble and cream.  
  
“You're doing great. I didn't even have to tell you to hold still.”  
  
“I'm not an idiot,” Javert says harsher than intended, but Valjean only smiles as he repeats the procedure, effectively getting rid of everything that is not part of the neatly trimmed facial hair Javert always sports.  
  
“Careful now,” Valjean says and tilts Javert's chin upward, so that he can reach the curve of his throat.  
  
Javert shivers involuntarily as he feels the metal on his skin, as he thinks of how easy it would be for Valjean to simply drag the razor along his throat and split it open. For a moment, a far too-long moment, he almost smells the blood that might gush out of such a wound, but, no, Valjean is not that kind of man. Has never been that kind of man. Valjean is kind and gentle and cleans his face with a wet washcloth afterwards.   
  
Javert groans at the feeling of water trickling down his shaven skin, of cloth caressing his neck like a lover's hands would do.  
  
“Lie back.”  
  
“For what?” he asks and bites his lower lip at the sound of his own voice that sounds too broken and needy and desperate.  
  
“You need a shave.”  
  
“But I -” Javert trails off and closes his mouth, feels his cheeks flush. Valjean raises a brow. And Javert obeys, lifting his arms above his head, flinches as Valjean runs his fingers through the short hairs. It's a strange touch and an even stranger feeling, something between ticking and arousing, and when Valjean touches him there again and again, caresses the sensitive skin that is always hidden under shirts and jackets and uniforms, he really cannot help but squirm.  
  
Valjean tells him not to move, and he obeys, permits him to shave him there as well, and when he looks up at Valjean's face, he knows that this is not over yet, that there is one more place Valjean will touch.  
  
Javert whimpers – and willingly spreads his legs.  
  
Never before has he realized just _how_ sensitive his body could be. Only now that somebody else is touching him – no, not just _somebody_ , but _Valjean_ –, only now that Valjean applies the shaving cream where his leg meets his groin, only now he knows what it's like to want and need and _yearn_ for a touch, a caress.  
  
Valjean swipes the blade over his skin again and again, making him shiver and groan. “Don't move!” Valjean chides him, his voice nothing more than a low growl that sends sparks of arousal down Javert's spine. “I wouldn't want to cut you.”  
  
Javert wouldn't want that, either. But it's easier said than done, because he is not afraid of getting hurt, not really, because he _knows_ Valjean would not hurt him. He keeps as still as possible, anyway, even though his cock twitches in demand of attention, even though Valjean's fingers tease his balls and the root of his shaft, and even though it appears to him as if every patch of shaven and cleaned skin becomes _even more_ sensitive, which should be impossible, really.  
  
When Valjean finally puts the razor away and cleans him up one last time, Javert is desperately moving his hips, seeking out as much friction as the thin washcloth offers him with a low whine.  
  
Valjean chuckles, though it sounds breathless and as hungry as Javert feels. “Do you think you deserve a reward?”  
  
Javert barks out a laugh, spreading his legs further. Of _course_ he fucking does, thank you very much. He always does. He's been good. He always is. He is one of the good guys, after all. “Come on,” he urges. “Come on, please, make me come. Do something, anything, I don't care, just do it _now_.”  
  
Valjean chuckles and looks him up and down, licking his lips. He produces another can out of the pockets of his discarded coat. No, Javert corrects himself. Not a can. A small bottle. “I had hoped you'd be a good boy,” he says and opens the lid. The smell of cherries hits Javert's nose and as he understands what exactly Valjean plans to do, he gulps audibly, opens his mouth to voice his protests – but Valjean makes a reassuring sound and strokes his hair (it has gotten slightly longer, long enough for Valjean to brush a strand of hair out of Javert's face), and tells him that there is nothing to fear, that he will not hurt him.  
  
And Javert believes him, because … well … why should he not?  
  
Valjean coats his fingers in lube and presses two of them against Javert's hole, slides them inside after a second.

It's a breathtaking feeling, one he has never experienced before, one that he's believed to be disgusting and painful, and maybe it would be painful normally, yes, but Valjean is good to him and takes care of him and moves his fingers slowly until they are completely buried inside of Javert.  
  
"God," he moans and bites his lower lip, rocks tentatively back against the fingers, and moans again at the feeling of them moving inside of him, of filling him out completely. They brush over a spot inside his body which he has known to exist (he is not stupid, really, and he's had biology classes, too, and, yes, actually, he has watched some gay porn in his life, and though he has /known/ that some men like to be fucked he has never thought himself to be one of them. Obviously, he's been absolutely wrong), but which still takes him by surprise. The sudden jolt of pleasure makes him cry out and clench around those fingers, and he is bucking his hips in an uneven rhythm, trying to force Valjean to hit that spot over and over again.  
  
But Valjean is not somebody to take orders, that much Javert has learned by now. “Are you fine?” he asks, and Javert wants to laugh and kick him for asking stupid questions, and at the same time feels nothing but adoration for the fact that Valjean is concerned about his well-being even _now_.   
  
“Fine,” he pants with a little effort. “More than fine, actually.”  
  
Sadly, this seems to have been the wrong answer, for Valjean pulls his fingers out – without listening to Javert's protests and pleas. Or so it seems, because Valjean only chuckles and opens his own pants, his slippery hand sliding off his zipper once and twice before he manages to pull his cock out.  
  
It's a sight that Javert has seen before. Once. During not so pleasant circumstances. Now, however, the sight makes his mouth water. He knows what's going to happen next. He's been anticipating it for quite some time. “You're going to fuck me now?” he asks when he wants to ask _What's taken you so long? Why haven't you done this before? Why haven't you shown me this before? This is something completely different than getting a handjob, why have you been keeping me in here and not fucked me even once? Isn't that what …_ His thoughts trail off. _Isn't that what kidnappers do?_ he'd wanted to ask himself. But Valjean is no kidnapper, has never been one. Valjean is simply taking care of him. It makes sense, then, that Valjean would try out certain things and touches and practices before taking him in earnest. Valjean would never hurt him – and he wouldn't do anything Javert doesn't want to do.  
  
Which is why, when Valjean orders him to get on his knees and _come here_ , Javert is already in his lap, putting his arms around Valjean's neck and kissing him on the lips again and again. Their cocks slide against each other, their moans mingle with their shared breaths. With a groan, Valjean uses his left hand to hold Javert still and his right hand – the lubed-up one, the slippery one, the one that has been so deep inside Javert – to stroke his own cock a few times until it is wet and hard, until Javert can lower himself onto it, until he can gasp and moan and dig his nails into Valjean's shoulders.   
  
He hides his face against Valjean's shoulder, brushes with his nose against the crook of his neck and tenses up when he feels Valjean's hands on his back. His heart is pounding in his chest, his breath coming out in short and shallow gasps. He can smell Valjean's aftershave, and it reminds him of an ocean, of a world that's without borders, of a world where he could get lost and nobody would find him, nobody would even bother searching for him. Outside, in the world beyond that door, he'd be all alone. The thought makes him feel sick, and he must have let out a sound of anguish, for Valjean's large hands find his hair and back and neck, rubbing soothing circles.  
  
“Javert?”  
  
“I … I can't … ” _I can't move, I can't think, this is too much, I can't … I … what are you doing to me?_  
  
Valjean presses a kiss to his temple, and Javert feels a sob in his throat that threatens to spill over his lips. He quickly swallows it down together with his fear of getting abandoned and concentrates on _here_ and _now._ Valjean is here. Valjean is taking care of him. Valjean likes him. That's more than enough, isn't it?  
  
It is. And Javert kisses him on the lips once more, carefully moves his hips, only to feel the length of Valjean's cock slip almost completely out of him, feels it filling him out again when he lowers himself back onto it. “Oh my God,” he whispers breathlessly, and he feels the urge to laugh, because he's never been a religious man, but this … this feeling, this moment right now is what he thinks Heaven might be.  
  
They move in an uneven rhythm, a desperate one, bucking their hips and groaning into each other's mouths, kissing and biting and sucking. Javert knows his lips will be red and swollen later, just as red as Valjean's will be, and the thought makes him clench around him, makes them both gasp and moan out loud.   
  
Valjean's hand sneaks between their bodies to clasp around Javert's cock, and then it's over. It's over too soon and not soon enough and it's too much of everything, too much to think and breathe, and he cannot do anything else but cling to Valjean's shirt for dear life, cannot do anything but ride him faster, harder, fuck himself on his cock again and again until he might have bruises inside his body the next morning, until Valjean buries himself in Javert one last time, only to come with a shout and his nails digging into Javert's back, leaving marks and welts and the feeling of _belonging_ somewhere.  
  
When he comes, it's with Valjean's name on his lips. And when the fog has lifted from his eyes and mind, he fells the sticky mess of Valjean's seed trickle out of him, feels his body grow limp and his hands shaking. He doesn't even notice the tears in his eyes until Valjean brushes them away with a thumb.  
  
“Did I hurt you?”  
  
He shakes his head, unable to find the words he would want to say.  
  
Valjean smiles. “Good. I was worried there for a moment.”  
  
“You wouldn't hurt me.”  
  
“And I would never do anything you don't like. Don't forget that. And don't be afraid to tell me when I do.”  
  
“I know,” he says, instead of 'I trust you'. “I will,” he says, instead of what he really wants to say. Instead of 'You own me' and 'I am yours' and 'I love you.'   
  
Because Javert has never been the one to articulate his feelings very well. And also, because he thinks it doesn't even need to be said.   
  
For what else should it be but love when Valjean helps him to stand and cleans him up and tucks him in, presses a kiss to his nose? Because he already knows when Valjean says 'You're a good boy', he really means 'I love you, too'.  
  
And that is all he needs.  
  
-  
  
"I wonder if I should put a collar around your neck. And make you eat our of a bowl. You already behave like a dog," Valjean says as Javert is wolfing his food down greedily, as he licks his fingers clean to not waste anything.   
  
Javert looks up to him and lets his gaze linger on Valjean for a long time, then he bares his teeth in a grim smile. He can’t do anything against it, hates himself for being so … obedient, so dependent. He doesn’t know why his heart always beats a little faster whenever the door opens, why he is happy to see him every time again. Because all that Valjean does these days is insult him. Javert misses the praise, the gentle touches, wonders what he has done wrong to have lost the privilege of these actions. But mostly he thinks that Valjean is behaving like an asshole. And he tells him exactly that. Together with two small words he would have never dared to utter if Valjean still were Madeleine.  
  
The shift in his expression is so subtle that Javert would miss it if he weren’t used to it. But Javert can see it. Sees how the smile freezes on his lips, how his expression shifts into that terrifying mask.  
  
He already has an apology tumbling over his tongue, but it is too late, for Valjean leaps at him, puts a hand around his throat and presses him back onto the mattress,  choking him.  
  
Javert gags, tries to breathe, digs his nails into Valjean’s wrist, but it’s useless, futile, doesn’t change the fact that Valjean is stronger and will always be stronger than Javert himself.  
  
"I should _fuck me_ , Javert? Are you sure?", he asks calmly, and Javert whines, wants to shake his head. “I don’t like this kind of tone. He have to work on your manners."  
  
A sob tears out of Javert’s throat, the pressure on his Adam’s apple hurts, pains him so much. Valjean’s big hand is around his whole neck, his fingers clawing into the tender flesh. If Javert could think, then he would remember his training, would remember that he was a policeman long, long time ago. He would remember that a human loses consciousness after fourteen seconds of being choked full-force. He would notice that Valjean doesn’t _really_ choke him, doesn’t want to hurt him too much (Valjean is taking care of him, a voice whispers in his head, and he ought to be grateful). But he cannot think. Instead, he squirms, tries unavailingly to escape Valjean’s clutches.  
  
And it’s Valjean’s large hand that holds him in place, while the other one travels down his body, pinches his nipples so hard that it hurts, that Javert gasps and wastes his breath. “Shouldn’t I fuck _you_ instead? Isn’t this what you wants? My fingers inside you?" He bends down to him, grinning mockingly. “But you don’t _deserve_ that now. If you behave like this, you don’t deserve a reward."  
  
The fingers on his left nipple twist and turn and _pull_ and Javert starts to feel dizzy (and why, why is it turning him on? He wants to ask, wants to wonder, but he already knows the reason: Because it’s _Valjean_ doing this to him. With Valjean, it’s good and expected of him, and however much it hurts, with Valjean, he _likes_ it). Valjean laughs into his ear, lets go of his chest to put his hand around his cock. Here, too, his touch is painful, punishing and rewarding at the same time. He strokes him firmly, up and down his whole shaft. “You like it," he says, smiling about Javert’s suffering. “This is what you want. Aren’t you pathetic? I can hurt you and even that turns you on."  
  
Javert nods, bites down onto his lower lip. He can’t breathe, doesn’t get enough air, he’s so short of losing his consciousness. Valjean could kill him. But Valjean wouldn’t, this he knows. Valjean wants him to be alive, Valjean takes care of him, Valjean is _here_ for him, is the only one talking to Javert and touching him and taking care of him.  
  
And when Valjean hurts him, then he deserves it, then he’s done something wrong, then he needs to learn. It shows how much Valjean takes care of him. Who else would waste this much time to teach Javert manners and new tricks and new things he ought to know?  
  
He gaps and shivers, and doesn’t take long until his body feels hot and burning and there are stars in front of his eyes. His blood is rushing in his ears, and he can hear his own frantic heartbeat. It doesn’t take long until his seed dirties Valjean’s hand.  
  
Maybe he passes out for a moment, because when he opens his eyes again, he is lying on his mattress, and Valjean is sitting next to him, idly looking at the white and sticky liquid on his fingers (the sight makes Javert shiver).  
  
"Don’t do this ever again. Understood? I don’t want to have to hurt you. And I don’t want to hear these words out of your mouth."  
  
He slowly nods, wants to apologize, but no word can leave his lips. He doesn’t know if it’s enough, wonders if he deserves another punishment for not apologizing.  
  
Before Valjean leaves him, he wipes his hand clean on Javert’s cheek.  
  
And Javert feels like a dog whose face is nudged into his own mess to make him understand that peeing into the living-room is bad.  
  
-  
  
Valjean doesn’t talk to him any more, and this time, something in Javert breaks and shatters into pieces. He begs and pleads and clings to him when he is present, and waits in front of the door like an obedient dog when he is not. He misses him. He needs him. He is so very sorry. He didn’t want to make him angry, really, please don’t go. _Please stay and talk to me and tell me I’m worth to be spoken to._  
  
Sometimes, Valjean uses him. Uses his body and soul and mind without uttering a single word. Javert feels like he might become addicted to him, addicted to the only person he even knows any more, addicted to the warmth and touches and pleasure.  
  
It takes a long time until Valjean speaks to him again. And when he does, it’s with a sneer. “Why should I waste my time with you? You told me what you think of me."  
  
"I … I didn’t want to … "  
  
"Yes. I got that the first time around." He composes himself and smiles, holds out a hand for Javert to nuzzle with his cheek. “You want me to like you again, right?"  
  
Yes. Of course. More than anything else. Please, oh God, please. He forces himself to stay silent, not to stammer and babble again, and only nods.  
  
"Show me how much it means you."  
  
For a second, Javert doesn’t know what to do. Then he nods once more. Valjean has shown him pleasure, Valjean has taken care of him when nobody else has. He needs to give some of that pleasure back. It’s a brilliant idea, really. This will make Valjean like him again for sure. He looks up to _him_ in adoration and breathes in, raises his hands to gently stroke Valjean’s flanks and hips, to open his pants and free the cock he has so often dreamed about. And it’s large. Larger than Javert’s own, just like Valjean’s hands are. He licks his lips again and leans forwards, showers it with kisses.  
  
Above him, Valjean groans and closes his eyes, and Javert knows he is doing something right. He teases the flesh with his tongue, licks a long stripe from the underside to the head. And puts his lips around it. When Valjean moans again, Javert can feel them both grow hard - Valjean from the stimulation and himself from the sounds and taste and smell of his … of Monsieur Jean. It’s the only name he knows anymore, the only one matters in his life, just like the cock in his mouth is the only thing that matters anymore. (He remembers, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it has been different, once. That he’s had responsibilities and has known other people. But Valjean has freed him from all of this). He sucks and licks with his eyes closed, tickles the shaft with the tip of his tongue. It feels heavy in his mouth. Like a paradise on earth. Slowly, he takes more of him, tastes as much has he can, savours every little sound Valjean makes, every drop of pre-come that already leaks onto his tongue and fills his senses.   
  
His own cock is hard and leaking, too, without anybody touching it. And he doesn’t know for sure whether he is even allowed to touch himself or not. But he has to. He has no choice. It it too good, too much, Valjean's hands in his slightly longer hair, Valjean’s cock in his mouth, Valjean’s own mouth muttering obscenities. He has no choice but to put a hand around himself and stroke his flesh, moan and whimper and buck his hips like he has learned it, like Valjean has taught him to. His own hands are not as good, though, not as cruel or gentle, not as teasing. But it suffices. And when Valjean grabs him by the back of his neck to fuck his throat in earnest, Javert comes with a shout.  
  
Valjean soon follows, filling Javert’s mouth with his seed, holding him in place until he’s swallowed every last drop. Not that he needs to be held in place, though. Javert swallows voluntarily. And smiles up at him when he’s finished. Now everything is fine again, right? Valjean won’t be angry with him any more, right?  
  
"You’ve made a mess."  
  
Javert flinches. What? Where? He looks down and bites his lip. And then he sees it. His own come has dirtied Valjean’s boots.   
  
"What do you intend to do about this?"  
  
Ah. That is easy. Wipe it off. Though, with what? He has nothing, has no sleeve to use. He licks his lips. And smiles. For he knows what Valjean wants. It’s a game he wants to play, one where he puts him in seemingly impossible situations and Javert has to find the way out. He leans down to put a kiss on Valjean’s boot, just like he’s done it with his cock. At the audible intake of breath above him, he knows that he is bringing him pleasure, that Valjean wanted to see exactly this. He peppers kisses onto the boot, tastes the leather with his tongue, moans as he licks up his own release.   
  
"That’s enough," Valjean says far too quickly, and Javert wonders why. He’d love to submit to him even more, lick his boots clean until every trace of dirt has disappeared. But he obeys and sits back up, leans into Valjean’s outstretched hand. “I think you deserve a reward."  
  
Javert chuckles. “I always do."  
  
-  
  
"You've been good so far," Valjean says, and Javert would want to smile in happiness, but can't.

In fact, he cannot move at all. He is lying on his back, legs bent and spread, ankles tied neatly to his wrists. He wants to smile, but can't, for there is a gag in his mouth, and whenever he swallows around it, the taste of rubber is overwhelming. Valjean smiles reassuringly, and Javert can hear a bottle being opened (he knows _exactly_ which bottle it is), and then the smell of cherries fills the room and his senses, makes him feel dizzy, and his flesh already starts to harden as if he's been trained for it.

"You're doing good," Valjean says with a smile and slides two wet fingers into Javert, crooking and stroking and teasing his insides.

He wants to move, wants to push back onto those fingers, wants to be taken in earnest, but Valjean only teases him further, spreads his hole a little to slip in one more finger. They move together, spread him even more, brush over that little spot that makes Javert whine into the gag. His own fingers are twitching, curling into fists, and he wants to _move,_ wants and needs it more and deeper and harder and _oh God, please_. The sounds he makes are desperate, wanton, and only a few months ago he would have been ashamed of himself. But he's beyond that. He passed the point of caring long ago. Now, there is only warm, brown eyes and gentle smiles and the urge to please and obey. Something else presses against his hole, and he flinches, tries to jerk away, shaking his head in _No more!_ and _I cannot ..._ and _What are you doing?_

The warm and gentle eyes of his Monsieur Jean come into view, and one of his large hands caresses Javert's cheek, brush a droplet of saliva away that threatens to spill over his lips. "Don't be afraid," he whispers, and "I won't hurt you." He smiles. "I simply want to know how much more can fit inside you."

More? Even more? But he's already spread open, spread wide, already so full and –

Valjean squeezes some more lube onto his hand with an obscene sound, and then there _is_ more, _so_ _much more_ , and it takes his breath away. His eyes are wide and unfocused, tearing up - not in pain, no, but because he's never even thought about taking anything _bigger_ than Valjean's cock, and now ... _now_ ...

"You should see yourself," he whispers in amazement. "I can fit my whole hand inside of you."

It tears a groan out of Javert's mouth, because he _knows_ these hands and he has fantasized about these hands, but never like this, never has he even dreamed of ...

And then, he moves. And it hurts. Javert panics for a moment, for one long second that makes his chest grow tight and his heart hurt, before he reminds himself that everything is fine, that Valjean would never hurt him purposely.

It's just an awkward angle, and it takes a bit of protesting and shifting his hips while making unhappy noises around the gag until Valjean gets the message. As soon as he understands, however, he is more careful. Apologizes. Kisses Javert's cheeks and nose and even presses a kiss to his trembling lower lip. "You're doing so good, Javert. I'm proud of you."

Javert flushes at the compliment, and groans, throwing his head back into the pillow, when the hand moves inside of him - all five fingers spread -, when it explores him deeper than anyone else ever has. It leaves him bare, unprotected, and he cannot do anything but buck his hips a little, moan and beg without his voice being heard, cannot prevent his drool from trickling down his chin as much as he cannot prevent his cock from leaking onto his belly.

And he cannot do anything but scream when Valjean finds _that_ spot once more, when he uses all five fingers to torture and abuse his prostate until Javert is nothing more than a shaking, crying mess, _coming_ mess with his own seed dirtying his chest and neck and face and his body aching and trembling and the darkness making his world go black.

Yes, he must have passed out for a few minutes, because when he opens his eyes again, the ropes around his limbs are gone and he is curled up underneath his blanket and Valjean has washed his hands and cleaned Javert up.  
  
-  
  
It’s the first night that Valjean spends with him. They curl up underneath Javert’s blankets (for he has more than one, now, and he deserves every single one of them), and Valjean kisses the top of his head, pulls him close.  
  
Javert finds no sleep. It’s too much. He is too close and not close enough. On the one hand, he wants to curl up as close a possible, hide his nose in the crook of Valjean’s neck. On the other hand, he feels hot, far too hot. He isn’t used to anybody being this close.  
  
His body is all tensed up and he shivers a little, stares at Valjean’s face in the darkness of his room, and even though he can’t make out his features at all, it calms him to imagine the smile on Valjean’s lips. With a sigh, he huddles closer, dares to lay a hand on his chest and run his fingers over his ribs.  
  
Valjean chuckles quietly, and Javert retreats his hand at once. “I didn’t want to wake you," he rushes to say.  
  
"You didn’t."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"I was thinking."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"About you."  
  
"… is something wrong with me?"  
  
Valjean presses their lips together. “Not anymore," he says, and Javert has never been happier in his life.  
  
-  
  
In his life, there is a door. Sometimes it opens, most of the time it doesn't. The is a door and a whole world beyond it, though where it leads, he does not know. It's the world of his Monsieur Jean, the world he protects him from.   
  
Javert has never much liked books before, but now they've grown to him. They are the sole source of entertainment he has, the only thing Valjean allows him to keep. They are _his_ , his collections, his treasured belongings. He reads the pages and devours the books and he learns so much of the world beyond that door. He learns of dangers and cruelty and people who want to hurt other people. He learns of fights that are not his own, of Gods and Devils and those humans that are the biggest demons of them all. He curls up in his blankets, he reads and learns and thinks, thinks about how glad he is that Monsieur Jean shields him from this world outside.  
  
-  
  
What is it that makes a human humane? Is it the fact that he can bleed and cry and die? That he can love? That he can form conscious thoughts by himself?  
  
Is a human still humane when he can be swayed and contorted to someone ease’s liking?  
  
The man, who is proud to be Jean Valjean again, slowly descends the steps to the cellar of the town hall, a bag in his hand, a smile on his lips. _A man_ , he thinks, _is a good man when he is loyal, when he can feel and believe and trust._ Javert is a good man, he knows this now. Javert might have been a good man before, a loyal man, loyal to the law and to Monsieur Madeleine, but now …   
  
When he opens the door, Javert’s head shoots up. There is a spark of adoration in his greenish-grey eyes and a flush on his cheeks. “Monsieur Jean," he exclaims happily, and Jean Valjean is proud of his work.  
  
Now Javert is loyal to Valjean, the innocent man, the murderer who never murdered, the man who survived and who did what he had to.  
  
Valjean kneels in front of him. “Good morning," he says gently and reaches out to ruffle Javert’s hair like one would with an obedient dog. “I have a present for you." His fingers reach into the bag, and produce a thin, black collar, expertly crafted out of the finest of leather, a small silver lock dangling from its front side. He shows it to Javert, whose face it lit up with curiosity and who is examining the collar closely. Javert brings up a hand to touch it, to feel the leather underneath his fingertips. “It will remind you of me."  
  
"Why should I need something to remember you?"  
  
"You might get distracted at work."  
  
Javert flinches, he repeats the word silently, his mouth forms it again and again, like he has to remind himself what it means, like he has forgotten what his work and duty is.  
  
Maybe he truly has. But fear not, for Valjean is here to help. “It will be hidden underneath your clothing. It will show you that … whatever may happen, however hard your days might be, there is someone waiting for you."  
  
What is it that makes a human humane? Is it love that he feels for Javert - or pity? Can he love his own creation? Is this how God felt when he has created the first human out of clay and mud, formed his face and body and carved emotions into his heart?   
  
"Will you wear it for me?"  
  
Whatever it might be, Javert is _his_ now. His creation, his responsibility. His friend and lover. The only friend he had in ages. The friend he made for himself first out of hate, then out of curiosity, then … out of loneliness.  
  
"With pleasure," Javert says, and Valjean puts the collar around his neck. It fits perfectly. Of course it does. He has expected nothing else. Carefully, he locks it in place, and then empties the bag that contains new clothes. He helps Javert get dressed and takes his hand.  
  
Together, they leave the cellar.   
  
The darkness stays in the depths of a Hell that has never been one, where it belongs, and the light greets Javert like an old friend.


End file.
